


The Ghost and Molly Hooper

by Doctor_WTF



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Turned Into a Ghost, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending may not actually BE happy, Supernatural Elements, self-sacrificing love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_WTF/pseuds/Doctor_WTF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly moves back to London she finds the most beautiful flat up for rent. Too bad the previous occupant isn't ready to leave it yet. -AU-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her first thought as she walked through the doors was 'It's perfect.' Her second was 'So what's wrong with it?'

The common room of 221B Baker Street was huge with big long windows that let in plenty of light and a fireplace that worked to boot. Of course it could have used a little tender loving care – the wallpaper was a stuffy and out-of-fashion Victorian print with, of all things, a smiley face spray painted on it – but compared to most of the flats she'd looked at today it was practically pristine. She'd need to buy rugs to cover the beautiful wood floors and probably more furniture – this one room was larger than her entire flat combined – but with the rents being so low that was a cost she could afford.

"It's beautiful," she gasped.

"Thought you might like it," Alex, her estate agent, said. He smiled a thin sort of nervous smile at her and gestured behind them. "Kitchen's right there and there's a bedroom with ensuite down the hall."

Molly suppressed a thrilled giggle, but couldn't hide her smile, as she inspected the kitchen. It was huge, so much bigger than her old flat's with a massive full sized fridge and a hob with four burners and an actual washer. She'd never have to go to the Laundromats again! The kitchen table that apparently came with the flat had seen better days – it had scratches and burns and actual gouges in it – but it would do until she could get a new one. She opened the cupboards – she'd never even dreamed of having this much cupboard space before – still looking for what was wrong. Maybe there was mold? Something had to explain the low rents.

She popped her head into the bathroom – fairly standard as bathrooms went, all white tile with black accents though, dear lord, there was a tub! She was going to have an actual tub for actual baths – before going into the bedroom. Just like the rest of the flat, it was massive. She'd be able to fit a queen sized bed in here without issue and that there was enough to make Molly not care about what was wrong with the place. The pipes could go hot and cold and the windows could draft, but none of that would matter. She would be able to get rid of her fold out bed.

The windows in the room were huge, afternoon light spilling in through them with a hazy yellow glow. They didn't have much of a view – just the houses behind, a glimpse of a tiny garden, and the dust bins below – but she could just picture herself in an armchair, Toby on her lap, enjoying the sun with a good book and a glass of wine. Floral curtains were needed, she thought to herself as she continued to gaze out the window, a slight smile on her face. Floral curtains and a fresh coat of paint to spruce things up a bit. There was a big, built in wardrobe against the wall and Alex told her that the small door next to it went to a steep staircase that went to the garden.

"Does my rent include access to the garden?" she asked, frankly astonished that she might be able to claim a bit of green space as her own.

Alex smiled his tight smile at her again. "Being the only tenant at the moment you'll have free reign."

Molly's smile fell and all of her happy plans crashed around her. "What do you mean I'll be the only tenant?" she asked. This apartment was 221B, that meant that at least there had to be a 221A and with the staircase continuing upward there was probably a 221C as well. All this space in central London, a tube station a short jaunt away, so close to Regent's Park, and she was going to be the only one here? Something had to be wrong with the flat, something serious.

"There's nothing wrong," Alex assured her quickly. Fumbling through his briefcase he pulled out a thick folder and handed it to her. "As you can see the building has been recently renovated with a new roof and windows installed. The plumping and electrical have checked out and there has been no evidence of mold, mice, or cockroaches anywhere in the premises."

"Then why are the rents so low?" she asked, looking over the forms. They all appeared to be in order though she'd like to take them to someone who knew about these things better before she signed a lease. Her brother Carl was an electrician, maybe he could help her?

"The owner has been having issues finding reliable renters since she retired to live with her brother in the country," Alex explained. "Due to this she has expressed to our agency that references are more important to her than the rent."

That didn't, it didn't sound right. Not at all. Molly stared down at the paperwork in her hands and frowned. She'd defiantly get Carl to look over these before she decided anything.

Alex sighed deeply at her negative look. "Of course there was the suicide."

Molly's eyes snapped up to meet Alex's guilty ones. "There was a suicide here?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Alex said, stepping closer to her and dropping his voice as if someone might overhear. "It was in all the papers when it happened."

The name did ring a bell. But only vaguely. This was probably a side effect of her working so long in Scotland, she'd lost touch with English news. "I don't really remember hearing about it."

"He styled himself a consulting detective. Pretended that he was a genius for the money and fame." Alex's eyes were darting around the tiny bedroom, nervous, as if he was waiting for something. Ah, poor man, Molly thought to herself. She always forgot how uncomfortable other people could be with death. He probably thought that his story was bothering her. From far away – perhaps from next door? – came the sound of someone playing a melancholy tune on a violin. "When he was found out he threw himself off of the roof of St. Bart's Hospital rather than be taken in by the police. This was his flat."

Alright, so perhaps she was a bit bothered by the tale. Molly had, after all, just obtained a position at Barts and now she was looking at the flat of someone who'd committed suicide there? It was a bit macabre. But then she was going to be working in the morgue. "So he didn't die here?" she asked. She hadn't seen any evidence of blood stains or the removal of them.

"No."

"That should be fine then," she said. Smiling again she held up the papers Alex had given her. "I'd like my brother to take a look over these for me before I make a decision if that's alright."

"Of course," Alex said, frowning slightly. "Though we're not quite done with the tour yet. I still haven't shown you the spare room."

Molly's eyes widened. "There's a spare room?"

*****

"You should have seen it, Carl!" Molly gushed as she set the table for dinner. "It has wood floors and a fireplace and the most gorgeous high ceilings and these big bright windows and it's simply humongous!" Turning back to the hob she turned off the burner and started stirring the alfredo sauce into her already drained pasta. "But the rent is hundreds of pounds cheaper than anything else in the area so I know there has to be something wrong with it."

Carl shrugged as he poured the wine. "I'll take another look at the papers you brought me Mols, but it seems like they've been doing good with the upkeep. To be honest, it looks like they've done everything to that place from replacing all the wiring to fumigating it for mold. There shouldn't be anything too wrong with it if there's anything. Maybe the suicide really is keeping people away? When that Sherlock bloke offed himself it was front news for ages."

"He didn't even kill himself there," Molly said bringing the plates to the table and sitting down. "He killed himself at Barts." Popping a bit of chicken in her mouth she chewed thoughtfully. "Bit weird that, living in the flat of someone who killed himself where you're going to work."

"Weird enough not to take it?"

Molly bit the corner of her lip then firmly shook her head. "No. The flat's perfect. It's close to the tube, it's massive, and it's in my price range. I'll never be able to afford anything else that's as close to Barts as it is. I'm going to call Alex right after dinner and tell him I'm taking the flat."

Carl smiled and held up his wine glass to clink against hers. "Congrats Mols! Though I've gotta admit, I'm going to missing having you around. I haven't eaten this good in ages."

"You've got to find yourself a girlfriend then," Molly teased, spearing another bite of pasta. "You can't expect me to take care of you forever after all."

*****

Molly wiped grime from her forehead as she unpacked her last box of dishes. It had taken her most of the day, but the flat was starting to come into something resembling order. Between Carl and the movers she'd hired she'd gotten all of her furniture in and placed just how she wanted it though her modest furnishings were being dwarfed by the sheer size of the rooms. It would all be okay though, the spare room upstairs was filled to the brim with furniture and boxes – the belongings of previous tenants and free game for her use Alex had told her – and she thought she'd spotted a bigger sofa and a couple of nice looking arm chairs in there.

She hadn't even started on getting her bedroom repainted or getting the horrid Victorian wallpaper off the walls of the common room though. That was going to be a project for another weekend, one where Carl could be around longer to help. She was thinking a nice sunny yellow for her bedroom and a nice cream for the common room. Something that would offset the beautiful dark wood of the fireplace and make the room appear cheerful. She'd gotten most of her clothes unpacked and in the wardrobe – she was going to need more clothes to fill it – and had her brand new bed delivered and set up. It was only a double, but this way she was sure to fit an armchair under the bedroom window just like she wanted.

Toby was acting a bit funny though. He was obviously disgusted by all the moving that had been going on for the last few weeks and she honestly couldn't blame him. After all, she wouldn't have enjoyed the long seven hour drive from Edinburgh to London stuck in a little carrier either. She'd never seen him act like this before though. The cat was pacing around the room, occasionally batting at the air as if attacking a piece of invisible string. To be honest it was more cute than anything else, but she was sure to set up Toby's bed and scratching post first thing just in case he wanted to get settled in.

Humming a happy tune Molly fetched out her mobile and rang the Chinese place she'd seen down the street. She'd worked hard enough for one day. Time to settle in, have some dinner, and get to bed.

It was the sound of violin music that woke Molly, the music loud and screechy and tuneless it seemed to have been playing right outside her bedroom door. Maybe that was what was wrong with the flat, Molly thought to herself rolling over in her bed and pulling her duvet closer around her. She didn't even bother opening her eyes. Maybe there was a mad violinist living next door that liked to play at odd hours.

She could deal with that. She'd find out which neighbor it was tomorrow and ask them if they could keep to better hours. If that didn't work there was always earplugs. Really, it was a small price to pay for such a-

"You're not welcome here," a deep male voice said from her bedside.

Molly shrieked, blankets flying everywhere as she scrambled from her bed and landed, hard, on the floor. Eyes wide with fear she looked up to see a tall dark figure looming over the other side of her bed. "Get out!" she shouted. "Get out or I'm calling the police!"

The man glared down at her, his pale skin nearly glowing in the faint street light that was coming in from outside. "This is my flat," he growled at her, taking a menacing step forward. "You are not welcome here. Leave now."

"I-I-" Molly scrambled at her bedside table, hands searching for her phone as she kept her eyes on the tall man. She found it, hands clutching around it tightly. "I'm going to-"

"Leave!" the man shouted at her and suddenly it seemed as if the room was full of birds. Their wings beat at her skin and their beaks scratched her flesh as she screamed loudly and fled from the room. The man watched her go, seemingly uninterested in her now that she was leaving, the invisible birds chasing her from the room.

Molly looked back just once, catching a glimpse of the man – so, so tall and ever so thin – standing framed in her bedroom window. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed, but he seemed to gather into himself a certain strength that caused him to straighten and press a violin beneath his chin. He began to play an angry yet sorrowful tune and, as she watched – unaided by anything – her bedroom door slammed ominously shut.

Just barely remembering to grab her coat from the peg by the door Molly raced out into the cool streets of London, violin music chasing her out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which DCI Lestrade is not a Ghost Buster

She'd called 999 as soon as she'd made it out the door. After nearly hysterically reporting the break-in, but not mentioning the invisible birds or the door shutting on its own, she had hidden in the doorway of the shop across the street and stared up at her flat. Behind the windows the rooms were dark and she didn't see any movement, though she could still hear the faint sound of violin music wafting down from above. It was sad. Sadder than any music had the right to be and it broke her heart and made her angry at the same time.

What had that man meant saying that it was his flat? It was hers! She had forked over a good portion of her savings for the security deposit and had signed a year lease for it. If he wanted the flat so badly he should have gotten it first or rented a different flat in the building. She knew the layout well enough now to know that the garden level flat was 221A and the basement flat was 221C, but the first floor and loft were hers! Molly felt her hand clench into a fist as she glared up at her own windows. She wasn't about to let herself be frightened out of her own home!

The violin stopped as an unmarked dark car pulled up in front of 221 and parked. A man with silver hair stepped out, his eyes fixed on her windows as he exited the car. She eyed him wearily from her doorway and wished she had remembered to put on shoes before she'd made her mad dash out of the building. Stretching slightly, the man glanced up and down the street before his eyes rested on her.

"Molly Hooper?" he asked. At her nod he crossed the street towards her, reaching into his coat pocket to remove a dark object. Stopping a fair distance away from her he handed it over and Molly recognized it as a police badge. She studied it carefully – it was heavier than she imagined it would be – before handing it back. It looked real enough, but then again she'd never seen a badge outside of telly before. "Greg Lestrade," the man said, offering her his hand. "I'm with Scotland Yard."

She shook his hand firmly, reminding herself to make eye contact like she always had to. "I'm glad you're here. A man broke into my flat when I was sleeping and yelled at me to get out."

"Yeah, they told me." Greg tucked the badge back into his pocket and his eyes went up to the flat again. He sighed slightly. "Your first night in the flat then?"

She looked to him, sharply. "How did you know that?"

"You'd be surprised how often we get a call like yours," Greg said in non-answer. He smiled at her weakly as if sensing her rising suspicions and wanting to soothe them. "Every time there's a new tenant here we get call after call about break-ins until they move out. I'm the only one who responds to this address anymore."

"So that's what's wrong with this flat? There's frequent robberies?" That was fine and easy enough to fix. She'd just get new locks put on all of the doors and maybe see about convincing her landlord to have a security system installed.

"Oh, nothing's ever stolen." Greg put his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. "Just lots of break-ins." He stood there for another long moment, lost in his own thoughts. "Right then," he said, rubbing at his face. "I'll just pop up and have a look around. Make sure that the bloke that broke-in has cleared off. Wait here."

She nodded and watched him slowly walk across the street and into the building. It didn't make any sense. None at all. This happened often? Why hadn't anybody caught the man then? Surely it wouldn't be too hard to catch someone if they were constantly breaking into the same flat over and over again to scare the tenants.

Molly gasped, her eyes going up to stare at the ajar front door of 221. She'd never told the police dispatcher which flat she'd been in yet Greg had been looking up at the windows of 221B ever since he got there. Sure, he'd claimed that this happened often, but how could he be certain that she hadn't taken 221A or C for rent?

Creeping across the road – she really did wish she'd remembered her shoes – she gently pushed open the front door and peered inside. Greg was upstairs. She could hear him walking and calling out as he went from room to room in her flat.

"Sherlock," she heard him nearly shout. "Sherlock! I know you're bloody there! Just-Just answer me or give me a sign or-or something!"

"Sherlock?" she muttered, taking a step inside so that she could hear Greg more clearly. Wasn't he the one that Alex had been telling her about? The former tenant who had died?

"Please, Sherlock." Greg's voice echoed down and it sounded to Molly like the silver haired man was near tears. Like his heart was breaking. She wondered who this Sherlock had been to him. "Please!"

When Greg came back down the stairs a few minutes later his face was blank, though he forced a smile onto his lips when he saw her waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Even in the darkness she could tell that it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll call you a cab," he said, fetching out his mobile as he joined her in the doorway.

"Why would I need a cab?" Molly asked. She glanced up the stairs back at her still dark flat. "He's run off, hasn't he?"

"It's all clear, but I figured that you wouldn't want to stay here after that," Greg explained. His eyes were on his mobile screen as he searched through his contacts for a cab company that would be open at this time in the morning. "Who's the estate agent you used to rent this place? Probably Alex Goss. I know him. If you'd like I'll ring him in the morning and see about getting you out of your lease and receiving your security deposit back."

"I – What?" Molly stared at him, confused. "Why would I want to move out?"

Greg looked up from his phone at her. "You've had a fright," he said after a moment.

"Yes, a fright, but that's not enough to make me want to pick up and move!" Molly protested. She looked back up the stairs at her beautiful flat with its gorgeous windows and frowned. "I'll get new locks put on."

"That won't help," Greg said. He reached out and gently touched her arm, concern on his face. "Look Molly, I can call you Molly, right?" She nodded. "I've seen this happen before. Plenty of times before. Trust me when I say it always ends poorly for the people involved. Spare yourself the hardship and get out now before things get any worse."

"Worse how?" She pulled away from his touch. "And why wouldn't changing the locks help? If that won't keep out a burglar, then I'll just get an alarm system."

"It's not burglars you have to be worried about."

She stared at him blankly. Oh, she thought. Oh. Did he mean-? He couldn't possibly mean- But he had gone upstairs and called out for a dead man and he had said this happened to everyone who moved into the flat. Molly tried to suppress a grin and failed miserably. "Are you trying to tell me that my flat's haunted?"

"Of course it's not," Greg said quickly. Too quickly and he'd looked away when he said it. "It's just-" He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his short hair. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a card and handed it to her. "Here's my card. If you get into any more trouble give me a ring and I'll be over in two shakes to sort it out for you. And if you decide to move, I'll help you to get your money back."

He walked out the door then hesitated, turning around so he could stare up the stairs to 221B. Molly thought that he was waiting for something. When what he was waiting for failed to appear his eyes flicked to her and he smiled weakly again. "Keep safe," he said and walked back out to his car.

Molly shut the door behind him, bolting it and checking the knob to make sure it was tightly closed. Card clutched tightly in her hand she walked the ground floor checking to make sure the doors to 221A and C were still locked. They were. Eyeing the stairs to her flat she took a deep breath and slowly walked up them, ready to run at any moment if a dark figure appeared at the top.

Her flat was empty. She checked it twice. She used a broom handle to check under her sofa – where no human could ever fit – and poked it around in her wardrobe. Checking the door in her bedroom that led outside – also still locked – she dragged a chair from the kitchen and wedged it under the door handle just in case. Toby eyed her from the center of her bed, puzzled but unconcerned with his human's behavior.

Sighing, Molly took off her coat and walked back out into the common room to hang it back on its peg. Picking the card back up from the kitchen table she carried it over to the big windows and tilted it so that she could read it in the yellow glow of the street lamps. "Detective Chief Inspector, Gregory Lestrade," she read out loud. Frowning, she put the card down on the windowsill and went back to her bedroom.

What on earth was a Detective Chief Inspector doing, responding to a simple break-in? She had told the dispatcher that she was fine, there hadn't been a murder, maybe the silver haired man was telling the truth when he'd said he was the only one who'd respond to calls from his address? If he was, then why? It wasn't very professional, not responding to calls just because it came from a certain place.

The gentle sound of music from far away lulled Molly to sleep before she could continue her thoughts. When she awoke she didn't even notice that Lestrade's card had gone missing from the windowsill.

*****

Her first day at Barts had been, frankly, dull. There were piles of paperwork to go over and sign, her direct deposit of her salary to arrange, and hospital policy to go over. Really, the policies of Barts weren't all that different from the Royal Infirmary where she'd worked before, but it wouldn't do to tell them that. Barts was the oldest and one of the most well respected hospitals in the UK. Comparing them to a merely 280 year old upstart would most likely offend their delicate sensibilities.

So she sat through the paperwork and nodded attentively for the policy discussion and tried to smile prettily for her ID. Her picture came out making her look like she had been high and/or drunk for it. Which meant it really was a proper picture ID.

Mike Stamford, her new supervisor, was cheerful as he showed her around her new domain. He seemed to be really honestly pleased that she was there and took pleasure in showing her around the lab. He pointed out her station and where the students kept their experiments and he escorted her to the break room and locker room so she'd know where they were. "You're office is down by the morgue," he told her, a bit of an apologetic smile on his face as he said it. "I'm afraid there are no windows down there, but in exchange you get lots more space."

Molly managed to keep the frown off her face and smiled instead. "I'm sure it'll be lovely." She barely had to fake her enthusiasm as they got closer to the morgue. Her hands itched for work, real work.

Mike swiped them in and held the door open for her. The morgue at Barts was quite nice, much larger than the one at the Royal Infirmary, with plenty of lights to make work easy. He showed her how to set up the video and audio recorders for autopsies and how to download the pictures from the camera for her reports. It was all very nice. Very high tech. She had the feeling that she was going to like working here very much.

"Any questions?" he asked once the tour was finally over.

Molly hesitated then smiled at him sheepishly. "Well, I do sort of have one, but it has nothing to do with work."

"Really? What is it then?"

"Well," she licked her lips nervously, "um, Sherlock Holmes?"

Mike's face fell and his lips went tight. "Of course," he said quietly. "Sherlock." He looked down and away from her, his eyes staring blankly at the floor. "He jumped from our roof. The fellows above brought him in and tried to bring him back, but he was too far gone. Knocked his head. Didn't have a chance."

"I'm sorry, Mike, for bringing this up. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No, no, it's fine," Mike said. His eyes met hers again and he smiled. "It's been five years now and it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to. What did you want to know?"

"I was in Scotland so I didn't hear much about the case," Molly said slowly. Despite Mike's assurance she still felt like she was treading on thin ice. "I heard that he was some sort of fake genius?"

"He wasn't a fake," Mike said firmly, eyes going a bit hard. "No doubt about that. He was always running rampant through our lab and the morgue fussing with his experiments and his theories. He was nearly always right too. And brilliant. So brilliant you couldn't even believe it sometimes. That's what got him in the end. He was so brilliant that people couldn't believe anyone could be that smart. It must have crushed him, finding out that everyone thought that he had made it up. That he was a sham. So no, he was a genius." Mike looked away again. "Not a criminal either. Never that. I asked John Watson about it afterward, he was Sherlock's flatmate and probably his only friend in the world, and John said that Sherlock could never have been a criminal. And I-I believe in John."

There was a long silence between them.

"Thank you," Molly said quietly.

Mike looked at her again and smiled. "No problem. So any other questions?"

*****

Molly stared at the front door of 221, clutching tightly at her bag of carry-out curry. She'd stopped by the library after work, catching it just as it was closing. She hadn't had much time but she'd managed to find a few articles on this Sherlock Holmes fellow and got them printed out. While she hadn't had the chance to read any of them yet, she had studied the picture she'd printed.

Sherlock had been handsome with dark curly hair and blue eyes that seemed to pierce the soul. She'd printed a picture of him when he'd been wearing some sort of silly hat, his collar turned up as he somehow managed to both hide from and bask in the sharp flash of a camera. Despite its silliness, the hat had suited him. It had managed to make his picture more mysterious, making his eyes pop and his cheekbones stand out.

Glancing up at her windows, Molly wondered if it really was Sherlock up there. No, she told herself, shaking her head. That was ridiculous. There was no such thing as ghosts. It was some sort of burglar or a neighbor playing a cruel joke on her. Sherlock Holmes was dead, his obituary was in her bag, and there was absolutely no coming back from something like that.

*****

She had been finishing up the dishes, humming along to the radio when the room suddenly went cold. Molly shivered, placing the last dish in the drying rack and reaching for a flannel. That was odd, she thought to herself as she dried her hands and started heading towards her bedroom. She hadn't noticed how cold it was before. Pulling on a jumper she padded back towards the common room thinking a blanket and a cuddle with Toby would be the best way to solve her chills.

"I thought I told you to leave."

Gasping loudly, Molly whirled around. The deep male voice had sounded like it had been coming from right behind her, but there was no one there. Inhaling deeply, she willed her heart to calm down. She was just being silly. Between the break in and Greg and all the information she had gathered about Sherlock, she was just making herself paranoid. After all, there was no such thing as ghosts, she muttered to herself.

"Wrong," the deep male voice said from behind her again. She spun only to find the room still empty. "Ghosts are apparently quite real. Though I can't blame you for not believing in them."

Once again the space behind her, just where the voice was coming from, was empty. Feeling herself start to tremble, Molly slowly began backing up towards the common room. The burglar was back and he was doing something – probably something with speakers and a video camera to watch her reaction – to torment her. It wasn't fair but she wasn't about to run panicked from her flat again. Not this time.

"Show yourself!" she demanded, reaching the sofa. She scooped up the peacefully napping Toby, holding him tightly in case she did have to flee. She wasn't about to abandon him again.

"Personally, I did not believe in ghosts until I happened to become one." The voice was once again coming from right behind her, but this time when she turned a man was standing there. His blue eyes bore into hers as a smirk crossed his lips. "Now, I believe the proper word for situations such as these would have to be, 'Boo.'"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the internet is no help and Molly attempts to cope with a haunted flat.

Molly couldn't help it. She screamed bloody murder and threw Toby at the man's face.

It hadn't been a conscious decision. Ordinarily, Molly thought of herself as a peaceful, kind person. The sort who held doors open for the elderly and gave her seat up to pregnant women. Certainly she wasn't the type to go throwing her cat! But the man had been right behind her and a lifetime of rape warnings and bad horror movies flashed through her head and suddenly Toby was out of her arms and flying, claws outstretched, for the tall man's face.

Luckily for the man, Toby never hit him. Unluckily for Toby, the cat passed right through him and landed on his feet on the floor with a very disgruntled look on his face. Hissing loudly, Toby raced from the room, presumably towards her bedroom to hide.

Watching him go, Molly turned back to the man – who she now realized was standing there being distressingly transparent – and prepared to scream once more when the apparition collapsed to his knees, gasping loudly. His already pale skin had gone white, whiter than it should have been possible to be, as he began trembling violently. Scream forgotten, Molly hovered over the man and worried at her lip.

"Are you- are you alright?" she asked, reaching out to touch the man's shaking shoulder.

The man winced violently away from her hand, throwing himself back out of the way rather than allow her to make contact. He hit her coffee table, knocking it back a few inches before passing through it. Glaring, he slowly faded from sight.

Molly stared at the space that the man had occupied and audibly gulped. That had been strange, to say the least. There had to be a logical explanation for it though. Maybe it was some sort of optical illusion or a video projection or something – anything – that would make it not a ghost? After all, it couldn't be a ghost. Ghosts weren't real!

Oh, who was she kidding? Sitting down heavily on her sofa, Molly cradled her head in her hands and focused on not hyperventilating. Her flat was haunted and she knew just who it was. She'd stared at the picture of him in the funny hat for long enough to be able to see the resemblance clearly. The man that she'd thrown Toby at had been Sherlock Holmes.

*****

The sound of violin music kept Molly up that night. She shuddered under her blankets at the swell and sigh of the sad song as it reverberated through the dark flat. Desperately she wished that she'd been able to coax Toby out from under her bed so she could have had the reassurance of his warmth. However, fear had frozen her beneath the questionable safety of her blankets and she couldn't bear the thought of getting up to fetch him.

The music stopped shortly before dawn. Groaning in relief, Molly buried her face in her pillow and smiled slightly when she felt her bed dip down slightly. "About time you came for a cuddle, Toby," she muttered sleepily, finally beginning to drift off.

"My name is not Toby."

Molly shrieked and whipped the pillow at Sherlock as she, for the second night in a row, fell to the floor. From his perch on the edge of her bed Sherlock laughed at her, the pillow flying through him uselessly as it knocked into and toppled one of her still unpacked boxes. Still chuckling he stood and, without hesitating, walked through her closed bedroom door. The violin playing started up again.

"That's it," Molly nearly growled, glaring at her door. Dressing quickly, and hoping that she wasn't being watched, she grabbed her laptop from the kitchen table and stomped out of her flat. The music turned into a jaunty tune as she locked the front door behind her and Molly glared up at her windows. For a moment she thought she saw her net curtains twitch, Sherlock's tall dark form just barely visible behind them. But then he was gone and the violin playing stopped.

Turning, Molly walked down to the Starbucks just down the street. It wasn't open yet, but its wireless still seemed to be on. Leaning against its windows she opened her laptop and began to Google how to get rid of ghosts.

*****

Burning sage turned out to be a terrible idea. The smell gave her a headache and it smoked dreadfully, quickly filling up the flat with copious amounts of thick, dark smoke. Throwing open a window Molly tried fanning the smoke out, but a towel and vigorous waving did nothing to send the smoke outside. If anything, it just spread it around further.

Why had the internet not warned her of this? Jumping to try and reach the fire alarm to pull out the shrieking device's batteries, Molly cursed herself for not fully thinking this through. She should have taken out the batteries to the fire alarm before attempting to smudge sage, but she hadn't expected there to be so much smoke!

There was a deep sigh from behind her and the room seemed to somehow tilt abruptly on its axis. Molly gasped, coughing as she inhaled smoke, and sank to her knees. Suddenly nauseous she clung to the floor, closed her eyes, and wished that the room would stop spinning. For a moment it seemed as if the room was full of birds again. Molly had the impression that they sat on every surface, on every spare space in the flat. She was covered with them, buried in feathers, as their little claws dug into her soft skin. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and bit back a moan.

With a gust of wind that rattled the flat the birds were gone. The floor stilled and seemed to settle once again as the window she had opened closed with a sharp crack. The fire alarm stopped its incessant shrieking. Slowly opening her eyes, Molly found that all the sage smoke was gone. Shakily getting to her feet, she looked for Sherlock – he was the only thing that could have done this – but he was nowhere to be seen.

A piece of paper fluttered down from the ceiling in front of her face. Molly snatched the paper out of the air, frowning at the note before crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash.

"Don't do that again," it said in spidery handwriting. "Also, leave. Your presence is increasingly taxing my patience."

*****

Five days later, she tried garlic. That hadn't worked either. To be completely honest, Molly hadn't been sure why garlic would work on ghosts, but the meditation and crystals she'd tried the day before had ended in embarrassment and disaster so she'd bought some anyway. It was either this or getting in contact with a psychic, and the scientific part of her couldn't handle that right now. As it was, despite her daily reminders of the supernatural sort, she was still barely able to accept that ghosts were real.

Yawning heavily, she finished hanging the thick strands of garlic around her flat and bed. Settling in, she hoped that tonight at least would be a peaceful night's sleep. She was starting to need one of those. Drifting off quickly, she was awoken maybe an hour later when a heavy bulb of garlic hit her on the forehead.

Sherlock loomed over her, his eyes practically glowing as he smirked down at her. "I have it under reasonable authority that garlic is for vampires. Do get out of my flat. Your lack of research skills is truly appalling," he told her before sweeping away. From the sitting room came the sound of violin music again.

Molly cursed lowly and pulled her pillow over her head.

*****

"All right there, Molly?" Mike asked.

Looking up from her fifth cup of coffee, Molly smiled at her boss weakly. "Fine," she said, biting back a yawn. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Concern tinged his voice as the older man took a seat next to her. "I know you're new here, but if you're having problems I can arrange for you to get some time off if you need it."

She shook her head quickly. "Not necessary," she lied. "I'm just not getting as much sleep as I'm used to. You know how it is. New flat and a new city. Lots of new noises to keep me," she yawned heavily, "up at night."

Mike frowned, but nodded at her as if he understood. Molly doubted he did. He didn't look like the type who had ever missed a decent night's sleep in his life. Standing, Mike placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it awkwardly. "If you ever need to talk, remember, my door is always open."

"Thanks," Molly said. After he was gone, Molly snuck the list of things to try against Sherlock back out from under her paperwork. Last night she'd used an Ouija board to try and call upon Sherlock's loved ones to usher him into the beyond. It had taken her nearly an hour to realize that she didn't know if her ghost even had loved ones. Sherlock had hijacked the marker anyway, using it to insult her appearance, intelligence, and grooming habits, and she'd gotten bored and gone to bed halfway through him slowly spelling out ignoramus.

However, for tonight she'd come up with a better idea. A house blessing. It would be perfect. There was a cathedral not that far away where she could collect some Holy Water and then she'd go and bless the hell out of her flat. And if that didn't work, she thought darkly as she sipped her coffee once again, she'd just burn the bloody place down.

*****

"In the name of God and Jesus Christ, may this room be cleansed!" Molly said loudly, flicking some of the Holy Water she had pilfered from the local cathedral onto her kitchen counter. Could one actually steal Holy Water, she thought to herself as she repeated the phrase and flicked more droplets onto the kitchen table. After all, it was just sitting by the door, free for anyone to take. Besides, it was just water. You could drink it if not for the fact that hundreds of unwashed hands had dipped into it. She frowned at the bottle in her hands. Who knew the last time the cathedral had washed their Holy Water bowl thingie – it probably had a proper name, but church had never really been a part of the Hooper household growing up – and now she was spreading this water around her flat? Suddenly this didn't seem as good of an idea as the internet had suggested.

"For the record, I do not believe that any supernatural entities exist," Sherlock's now nearly familiar voice said from behind her. "Religion is a fool's folly."

Molly jumped and spun, swearing loudly as a hand came up to clutch her chest. Why did he always do that!? Instead of appearing in front of her like a normal person he always had to sneak up behind her! He was in her sitting room, spread out over the sofa as if he belonged there, carefully rosining the bow to his violin and ignoring her completely. Glaring, she walked up to him with all the confidence she could muster and flicked Holy Water at him. "In the name of God and Jesus Christ may you go sod off and be cleansed!" she said firmly.

Sherlock glanced up at her briefly, his eyebrow rising, but besides moving his bow out of the way of the water he didn't react. In fact, the droplets passed right through him and landed on the fabric of her sofa, sinking into the floral print.

She glared down at him, taking in his perfectly pressed suit with its slightly agape neckline and his perfectly curled hair, and suddenly found herself hating him. He'd been interrupting her sleep for nearly three weeks now – the bags under her eyes had gotten married and begat more bags until she felt and looked like a junkie raccoon – her hair was in a permanent state of disarray, her clothing was a wreck, her new co-workers were looking at her as if they regretted ever hiring her, and here Sherlock was looking like he had just stepped out for a fashion shoot and was just waiting for the photographer to tell him where to stand. It wasn't fair. Ghosts shouldn't be allowed to look so put together!

That said, she was actually rather amazed to see Sherlock still in front of her. So far her glimpses of him had been fleeting, seeing him for only a few moments as he scared her into running or left a room by fading or walking through a wall. Seeing him sitting on her sofa, working on his bow was strange. Odd. Normal.

"You are a supernatural entity," she snapped, a hand going to her hips as she felt her anger and confidence start to fade. "So quit existing and get the hell out of my flat!"

Apparently satisfied with his work, Sherlock gently set his bow down on the sofa and stood abruptly. Molly took a step back as he loomed over her, his eyes intently fixed on her face. "Why are you still here?" he asked, leaning towards her slightly. She took another step back as he studied her carefully. "All of the others left immediately. Why are you different?"

"I-I-"

"Complete sentences, Molly. You are an adult. Act like one."

She flushed hotly, feeling the anger rushing back. "All I know is that I want you out of my flat!" she shouted, hands clenching into fists. "You're not welcome so leave! You're dead, Sherlock. Dead! Just sod off and go off into the afterlife or whatever dead people are supposed to do. Leave!"

Sherlock's face hardened and his eyes narrowed slightly at her. "No," he said firmly. "This is my flat and you are the unwelcome one. Consider yourself warned, Molly. If you do not leave immediately I will be forced to take drastic measures."

Molly threw the bottle of Holy Water at his head, knowing that it would pass through him but cursing loudly anyway when the glass bottle hit the wall and shattered. "I'm not leaving!" she shouted as the water dripped down the wallpaper. "There's nothing you can do to make me leave!" She felt tears well up in her eyes and she fought them back. It wouldn't do to start crying in front of the ghost that was making her life miserable. "Just try your worst. It won't change my mind in the slightest!"

"Very well," Sherlock said stiffly and vanished from sight.

For a moment she stared at where he had been standing. All she wanted was for him to be gone, she thought miserably to herself as she wiped at her leaking eyes. She wanted the beautiful flat that she had imagined herself being so happy in. She wanted to walk out of the shower without worrying if there was a pair of invisible eyes on her. Most of all she wanted a decent night's sleep. God, she missed sleep. All she needed was one decent night where she could sleep for an unbroken six hours without the blankets being ripped from her bed or the lights turning on or Sherlock playing the violin so loudly that her ear plugs couldn't keep out the racket.

Choking back a tired sob, Molly went to go fetch her dust pan and a flannel. She had to clean up the glass before Toby got into it. So caught up in her misery she never even thought to wonder how Sherlock knew her name.

*****

It started with a dream.

She stood on the roof of St. Barts, a mobile phone pressed to her ear. On the other end of it, someone was shouting at her. Begging her to do something. Or not to. She couldn't really hear the voice, just the emotion behind it. They were sad. She had done something to make them sad.

Her face was wet. Dropping the mobile phone she took a step towards the edge of the roof. Her mind screamed at her to not do this. She didn't want to fall. She didn't want to die. But her body kept moving forward until-

She jumped. The ground rushed up towards her.

Screaming Molly jerked herself awake, clutching her blankets to her chest, as the flat erupted into chaos. Every light was flickering on and off, the doors were opening and slamming shut over and over again, and the windows trembled loudly in their frames. Her bed shook violently and she scrambled to get out of it, her mind screaming at her to run even though she didn't know where to go or what to do.

"Stop it!" she screamed, feeling tears coursing down her cheeks. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

She stumbled down the hall to the kitchen. The tap turned itself on, running full blast as her cupboards and drawers slammed open and shut. A chair flew at her, missing and hitting the wall instead, but she cried out anyway and bit back a sob.

Sherlock was standing in the sitting room, his back to her. He was strangely limp, standing there wrapped in a long dark coat, his hands slightly outstretched. Though the entire room seemed to tremble and shake he seemed untouched by it, a pillar of stillness in a room of insanity.

"Sherlock!" she sobbed, running up to him. She stopped short, hands covering her mouth and she tried to hold back her tears. "Stop it! This isn't funny!"

"Molly." His voice was choked, hoarse. Slowly, he turned around and she screamed.

He was bloody, his face half bashed in and his nose squished sideways at an odd angle. His jaw was obviously broken, his mouth no longer able to shut. Bright red blood and grey matter leaked from his left temple. And, oh god, his eyes. His eyes just looked out at her from that wreck of a face and they just hurt. In the morgue Molly saw death every day. Sometimes it was peaceful and sometimes it was violent, but she knew what death looked like. Death was final and this was so much worse. Sherlock had died, come through, and he still remembered it.

"Molly," he choked out again. Blood dripped from his lips as he reached out for her.

Screaming again, Molly slapped him. Hard. It was like hitting a glacier, freezing pain lanced up her arm to her shoulder, but she made contact with Sherlock's cheek. She was surprised that she'd actually managed to touch him. He seemed surprised too, a hand coming up to touch his cheek, as all the chaos that had overtaken the flat fell silent. The doors stopped banging, the windows stopped rattling, and the lights flickered off for a final time. They stood together in the darkness.

"You bastard."

Sherlock was silent, his hand cupping his cheek as he stared at the floor.

"You complete and utter bastard!" Molly's hands had clenched into fists and though she was still crying her voice was clear. "How could you? How could you do that to me? Scare me like that? It was – I was –"

"I did warn you."

Suddenly it was all too much. She gave up. This wasn't worth it anymore. Wrapping her arms around herself, Molly began to laugh. Sherlock's eyes darted to her and away as he shifted on his feet.

"What's so funny?" he finally asked.

"You." Molly sniffled loudly as her laughter faded. Brushing the tears from her face she straightened and fixed the ghost with the hardest glare she could muster. "I pity you." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "You want to be alone? Fine. I'll leave you alone."

Turning, she returned to her bedroom and found her suitcase, throwing it down onto her bed she began ripping clothes out of her wardrobe to pack. "Just be alone, Sherlock!" she shouted, opening her knickers drawer and pouring the contents into her suitcase. With a bit of effort she managed to close it and then fetched down Toby's carrier from the top of the wardrobe. Toby was hiding under her bed, trembling, his claws fully extended and tightly dug into the wood floor. Shoving the bed aside, Molly finally managed to reach him, prying him up from the floor and forcing him into his carrier.

Not bothering to change out of her nightclothes she just found a pair of trainers and put them on, not taking the time to find socks. Carrying Toby and her suitcase she stalked out of her room and put them down by the door to the stairs so she could shrug on her coat.

Sherlock was still standing there in her sitting room, bloody with his eyes downcast. She bit her lip as she fetched her purse and mobile, part of her wanting to continue to shout and curse at him while the rest of her just wanted to run away.

"It's no wonder you're alone." Sherlock flinched at her words, his eyes slowly coming up to meet hers. Taking a deep breathe, Molly picked up Toby's carrier and continued. "If I was a git like you I'd probably be alone too."

Sherlock's eyes hardened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're miserable, I know you're alone, and I know you're dead. Really, that's all I need to know." Turning to go, Molly hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs. For some reason she thought of her dream. Of the sad voice at the other end of a mobile and the wetness on her face. "You're waiting aren't you? You're waiting for someone to come back for you. That's the real reason you're keeping this flat empty, isn't it? Whoever it is, whoever you're waiting for, they're not coming back, Sherlock. I think you need to accept that. " There was no sound behind her, but Molly didn't bother to look and see if Sherlock was still standing there or if he had vanished. "Enjoy being alone."

The flat was silent as she descended the stairs. It was silent as she opened the front door and stepped outside. But as she shut the door behind her, carefully locking it, she thought she heard a sob. Molly paused for a moment, her hand on the doorknob. Then, shaking her head, she picked up her things and started to walk down the street towards the tube station. She knew when she wasn't wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly learns a vital fact and gains a new flatmate.

"Jesus!" Carl gasped as he opened his flat door. He stared down at his big sister and, yawning, rubbed at his eyes. "You look like shit, Mols. What happened? Are you alright?"

Clutching her suitcase and Toby's carrier, Molly sighed heavily. "I'm fine, it's a long story, and I'm really not up to it right now," she said, awkwardly shifting her weight from side to side. "Can I stay with you? Just for a day or two until I figure a few things out?"

Shrugging, Carl stepped aside to let her in. Closing his flat's door he went to the cupboard to fetch a spare pillow and a blanket for his sister. "Are you sure you're alright, Molly?" he asked, rummaging around for a blanket that wasn't ancient or full of holes. "I've never seen you look so run down before."

There was no answer. Glancing over to his sofa Carl saw his sister had already passed out, her face slack with exhaustion. She had curled herself up into a tiny ball, her head resting on her folded arms, as she snored ever so slightly. Molly hadn't even taken the time to release Toby, Carl noted and freed the cat from his carrier. Didn't look like she had remembered to bring her pet's food or litter box either, but that would be alright. She'd left both behind when she'd moved out last month.

Draping a blanket over his sister's shoulders, Carl smiled as Molly moaned slightly and huddled tighter under it in her sleep. "This isn't over Mols," he warned her quietly, turning off the lights and heading back to his own bed. He was right.

*****

Despite herself, Molly couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. The way he stood in the flat after she'd slapped him. The way his eyes had been glued to the floor. The way she thought she'd heard him cry after she'd left him behind. It wasn't fair. He'd been horrible to her, disturbed her sleep and frightened her silly, but she couldn't stop thinking about him, broken and alone again in her now empty flat.

She found herself wondering if he was still in the flat as she cut open corpses. She wondered why he had been so desperate to frighten her off as she filled out paperwork. She wondered why he had chosen Barts to kill himself, why he had felt the need to prove his intelligence to the world by faking cases, wondered if Mike had been right when he said that Sherlock hadn't been a fake at all. However, most of all she thought about his eyes after she'd slapped him. Dull, sad, lonely. Whoever had left him, whoever he was missing, Molly wondered if there was a way to reunite them. Or was the person Sherlock was waiting for dead too? Did Sherlock even know? Why was he still in her flat anyway?

Finding herself at the library every day after work wasn't a surprise. Finding herself there during her lunch breaks wasn't either. It was when she started going there on her days off that she realized she had a problem. She had a laptop at home with Carl after all. She could be doing this in the warmth and safety of her brother's flat, but there he would ask her what she was doing. Here she was just another faceless nameless Londoner, obsessed with a topic that she researched endlessly.

Her eyes glued to the library computer screens, she read every article that mentioned his name. Her headphones plugged into the jack she watched every youtube video, interview, and news report she could find about Sherlock's cases, disgrace, and death. To her own surprise she shed her shy persona and called the reporters who had covered the case, asking for their research and sources. She lied to their voices and faces, telling them she was doing this for a book, for a follow-up report, anything so long as it convinced them to hand the information over. She didn't tell them it was because she was obsessed with the ghost in the flat she still paid for. The flat she hadn't even laid eyes on for nearly two months.

"Why are you keeping that place if you're not going to live there?" Carl asked, his voice annoyed. The charm of his sister living with him was starting to wear off, especially since she had stopped with the cooking and cleaning. She was filling his tiny flat with stacks of papers on some dead bloke she hadn't even met and seemed to live in a world that revolved around work and research. It wasn't healthy. He told her that as he asked her why she was doing it.

"I just want to know why he looked so sad," Molly said. Her fingers brushed the last picture ever taken of Sherlock Holmes.

It was from security camera footage showing the man's last walk to the roof of St. Barts. There, he would shoot Richard Brook and clumsily make it look like a suicide before jumping off the roof. All the news reports she read, all the reporters said, how cruel he had been that day. Terrorizing that poor man, murdering him. Molly thought he just looked sad. Wrapped in his big black coat, scarf carefully tied around his neck, he looked like a vulnerable and scared man hiding in cloth armor. As he had opened the door to the stairwell he had paused, closed his eyes, and taken a deep breathe. He didn't look like a man who wanted to murder someone and die. Molly thought he looked like a man who wanted to run away and live.

Nearly three months into her search she found the answer she had been looking for. It was a Friday, well Saturday by the time she was done, and three in the morning. Carl had gone to bed hours ago as Molly had sat on his couch, reading lamp on, papers spread all over the floor. Taking her glasses off, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and slowly closed the file. Scratching Toby under the chin she felt her eyes well up with tears.

"It was all a lie," she whispered to the empty room. Saying it somehow made it real so she said it again. "Richard Brook was a lie. Sherlock Holmes was real. Oh god," the tears began to fall, "he died over a lie."

*****

It had been a good lie. Utterly complete until you tried to dig under the surface. However, the surface had been enough for the reporters who knew the story and the spin they wanted to give it. The story about the disgraced fake genius and the way he had fooled everybody, except for them. The reporters had wanted to be heroes. Kitty Riley had wanted to be a hero. Respected and praised and honoured for the story she had broken, truth be damned.

Richard Brook had been a lie. The news articles, carefully backdated, claimed there had been television shows and movies he had appeared in. The same news articles waxed poetic about Brook's skill, his evident charm and charisma. Yet it was obvious that none of the reporters had ever seen the DVDs of Brook's shows. Obvious that they were recycling the same tired quotes without ever going to the source. Molly knew that the DVDs didn't exist. She'd tried to order them from the internet only to find that every site that listed them claimed they were sold out. She hunted through forums and chat rooms asking everyone she could find if they'd ever watched his children's show, ever seen it aired. Some people, of course, said they had, that they had loved it. Yet, when she pressed for details they gave her nothing.

On one of her days off she lied her way into the BBC studios with a press pass she made in photoshop and laminated at a nearby FedEx. She sweated bullets as she was lead through hallways and offices to find the people she hoped would be able to reveal the truth. The listed producer for the show was long dead – heart attack – as was the director – stroke – but the cinematographer? Unlisted and there was only a few people it could be and they were all still alive. She just needed to find the person who had worked on the show and ask them a few questions.

The answers she got were all the same. Each man was flattered that Molly had come down to talk to them, they so rarely got attention when the actors, producers, and directors sucked it all up. She started out slow each time, asking them about their work and their careers. It transitioned easily to asking them specific questions about past shows.

Each and every time, each and every time, she asked them about Brook's show The Storyteller she got a kind smile and a shake of the head. "I didn't do that one," they'd say. "That was someone else."

She bought the DVDs for the medical drama Brook was supposed to have joined. Watching the episodes over and over until Carl yelled at her to stop, she scanned every frame for his face, eyed every crowd. He wasn't there.

She got in contact with the Mountford Agency. Brook had been a client but only long enough to get his image into their casting calls. He'd transferred in from a different agency they told her. No one knew which one.

He was in all of the actor's guilds but no one knew how he had earned his card. Using the mortuary at Barts she got ahold of his death certificate and lying through her teeth again, it shocked her how good she was getting at it, she tried to use it to get his birth certificate. It didn't exist. Risking her career and criminal prosecution she got ahold of his NHS number. It was a fake.

Sitting in her brother's flat, scratching Toby under the chin, she told the empty room that Richard Brook was a lie. And if Richard Brook was a lie, what did that mean for James Moriarty?

*****

A week after turning her research firmly onto uncoding Moriarty, a woman appeared outside of Molly's work. She gestured to a black towncar and asked Molly to get in. The large burly men who mysteriously appeared behind her let Molly know that this wasn't an invitation she could refuse. They took her to a café just down the street from Carl's flat. Safe territory. If she could get away she could run home and be safe in ten minutes. The thought made her relax.

A man was waiting for her. Tall, tired, and thinning on top he'd shaken Molly's hand, invited her to sit in the otherwise empty café, and bought her a cuppa. As she stirred sugar into her drink he told her the reason he'd brought her there.

"I want you to stop digging, Miss. Hooper," he said. Somehow Molly wasn't surprised that he knew her name. "You're just dragging up the ghost of an old issue that is better left dead and buried."

She smiled at his words. She couldn't help it really. Thinking of the ghost in her flat and his sad blue eyes she smiled. "I'm just trying to find the truth. The truth wouldn't hurt anyone, it just sets you free."

"A noble sentiment," the man sneered. Sighing slightly, he looked away. "Sherlock Holmes is dead, the truth won't help him anymore. Those he knew, those who loved him, already know the truth such as it is and the rest of the world doesn't matter. Besides, you have your own safety to think of."

She froze, staring at him, wondering if he was threatening her. "I don't understand."

"Richard Brook was a lie," he said and she was struck by how real the words felt coming out of another person's mouth. "That means James Moriarty was real. Moriarty broke into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentoville Prison on the same day, at the same time. He arranged for my brother to kill himself before committing suicide." Leaning over the table he'd smiled at her darkly, meeting her wide shocked eyes with his tired ones. "Don't you think that the ones he left behind would be watching to make sure that no one undid their leader's final work?"

He'd left soon after that, but not before making Molly promise she'd no longer pry.

Sitting alone at the table, Molly had stared into her cold cup of tea and thought. She'd never considered that her project could be dangerous. Never thought beyond the desire to know, to find out the truth.

Walking back to Carl's flat she realized how foolish she had really been. She might have been able to find out the truth about Richard Brook, seen through the lie, but she was no closer to figuring out what kept Sherlock locked up and lonely in her flat. What had she even discovered about Sherlock Holmes during her research? He was brilliant and he was sad. He had blue eyes that glowed in excitement and went glassy when he was bored. He had a thousand, thousand different smiles that he would flash at any camera, but none that would reach his eyes. He had a friend, John Watson, who was now in Africa and who never answered any of her e-mails. He had a landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who'd moved away and whom Molly was too shy to bother. And now she knew he had a brother. There hadn't been anything in the papers about him.

Letting herself in, she picked up her research and stacked it up in neat piles. She cleared the table of her mess and made the couch look presentable again. Doing a load of laundry, both hers and Carl's, she started dinner. It was just about ready when her brother came home.

Gazing around his tidied up flat, Carl looked at her with hopeful eyes. "Is it over?" he asked. "Are you done with it then?"

She smiled at him and nodded, uncorking the wine and pouring it for them. "I'm done," she promised. "There's nothing for me to find anyway."

*****

Two days later she found herself outside the Baker Street flat, key in hand. She stared at the door, breathing heavily, as she fought with herself on whether to go up or not. It was her flat, she reminded her trembling hand. Her flat, she was the one who was paying for it even though she hadn't been there in months. It was her furniture up there and her clothes in the wardrobe. Her pictures were on the walls. Ghost of Sherlock Holmes be damned, this was her flat and she wanted it back.

Schooling her resolve with anger she opened the door and stomped up the stairs. Opening the door to her flat she froze. She'd walked into a disaster zone. Her curtains had been torn to shreds and her sofa ripped to pieces. Cloth and stuffing covered the floor intermingled with broken glass from her picture frames and dishes. Stepping into the room, glass crunching beneath her shoes, she looked at the destruction with horror. Someone had broken the light fixtures, shattered the lightbulbs. The wallpaper had scratches in it as if someone had been trapped and been trying to claw their way out. Her cupboards were open, all her dishes smashed. Going into her bedroom she found the room torn apart. The curtains here were also tattered, her bed thrown against the wall, the clothes she had left behind and the beddings scattered on the floor.

Why had she thought it was a good idea to come back here? It wasn't worth it. The ghost could have the flat. Breathe hitching in her throat she made a run for the front door only to scream when she saw Sherlock waiting for her on the stairs. "You're back," he said, walking towards her as she stumbled back into the sitting room. "I didn't expect you would be."

Feeling tears spring to her eyes, she furiously blinked them back and tried to mentally regroup. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, blocking her escape. He stared at her unflinchingly, face impassive. Once again he was dressed in the big black coat and scarf, but this time he wasn't bloody and his face was unmarred. She wished that he had appeared to her looking dead again. She was so much better with the dead than she was with the living.

No. That wasn't true. The last few months had proved that she was fine with the living too. After all, she had lied and wiggled her way into plenty of people's lives and time to gather her research without any of them realizing. If she could handle pretending to be Richard Brook's widow, sobbing to a stranger in order to try and get his birth certificate, she could handle one sorry ghost.

Pulling herself up to her full height she nodded firmly. "I-I'm back."

"Molly Hooper." Sherlock said her name slowly, carefully. Like he was trying to taste the words. Shaking his head slightly he sighed, crossing the room to the windows and stared out it, ignoring her completely. "Leave. Now. And don't come back this time."

For a moment she considered it. Then she clutched her hands into fists and marched up to Sherlock. He flinched ever so slightly as she approached and she wondered if he was worried that she would slap him again. "Richard Brook was a lie." She said the words and this time they felt solid. "Moriarty was real."

He turned towards her, surprise in his eyes until he managed to get ahold of himself again. "Who told you that?" His voice was slightly hoarse which was odd. He wasn't alive, there was no way or reason for him to get choked up.

"No one told me, I figured it out for myself," Molly told him, confidence starting to fade. "I started doing research after-after you frightened me out."

"Why?"

Molly opened her mouth to answer but found that she didn't have one. Not a proper answer anyway. With Sherlock staring down at her, she felt like she had to try and give him one anyway. "You looked sad," she finally said. "When you thought I was leaving you looked so sad. N-Not because it was me that was leaving you, but because you were going to be alone and I thought-"

The room went frigid. "You thought what?" Sherlock shouted, eyes suddenly ablaze.

Taking a menacing step towards her, hands clenched into fists, he did it again. He made the room feel as if it was full of invisible birds and Molly felt herself choking under the weight of their feathers and stares. She tried to step back, to get away from him, but she fell under that terrible weight. Glass cut her hands, her legs, and blood started to flow, but neither of them seemed to notice.

"What do you know, Miss. Molly Hooper?" Sherlock sneered above her. "What do you know about my life, about what I went through? Little Miss. Molly Hooper from Liverpool and, more recently, Edinburgh. Put yourself through Uni, didn't you? Wanted to be a doctor. Wanted to help people in ways that people never helped you. What was the matter Molly? Was Daddy a drunk? Did Mummy pop pills to make the pain and shame of living in council housing go away? No, you just grew up thinking how nice it would be if people cared more about helping rather than hurting."

"Stop it," she gasped, fighting for breath. She felt as if there was ice filling her veins and as if someone was sitting on her chest. The weight was too great, her lungs wouldn't work properly.

Sherlock ignored her words, kneeling down next to her instead. His eyes were like ice blue diamonds as he trembled slightly in rage. "And now you're a surgeon at Barts. Doing what? Something disgustingly heartwarming I suppose. Pediatric surgery? Gynecologic? Well? Which is it? Tell me!"

"Stop it! Stop it!" she screamed. "You're hurting me!"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he threw himself away from her, scrambling backwards until he hit the wall. Instantly the weight was gone. The feeling of birds, their feathers and cold stares, vanished and Molly gasped. Clutching at the floor, not caring that she was being cut by the broken glass there, she focused on breathing. When she finally looked up Sherlock was in the corner, knees tight to his chest and his arms around them. His head was bowed and Molly thought he was shaking.

Chest aching, she got to her feet, brushing glass and fabric from her clothing. A thousand tiny cuts dotted her skin, some of them quite deep and she whimpered slightly at the sight. Taking herself to the remains of her sofa she sat down and, steeling herself, began picking the bits of glass out of her skin. She dropped the bloody shards to the ground, wishing she had antiseptic, gauze, or even better light, but felt too weak to go in search of them right now.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly from the corner.

She looked up at him. "I'm a histopathologist at Barts," she said quietly, going back to pick out the glass. Sherlock looked up at her slightly and she continued. "I don't do surgery on the living at all, just on the dead. I'm trying-I'm trying to find out why surgeries fail. Why some patients go into shock where others are fine. I want to discover new ways to do procedures so that people are less likely to die during them. Even though I've been trained, they hired me as a pathologist as that's what I mostly do. I run lab tests for other people and do autopsies. Carl, he's my brother, he says that what they're paying me is a crime. With all the work I've done, with all the time I spent getting accepted into the Royal College, I should be getting paid three times as much. But I don't care. I like my job, what I do. If I manage to determine a procedure that would save even a few more lives, I would consider it a career well spent."

Sherlock met her eyes for a moment before he looked away. "Boring," he said quietly. "Dull. Why did you tell me that?"

Shrugging, Molly picked out the last of the glass – that she could see at least – and got to her feet. She was still bleeding. She'd need to stop by the chemists on her way back to Carl's and pick up supplies. Needed to come up with a proper excuse as to what had happened as well. "You wanted to know what I did. That's what I do." The door was right there. She walked towards it.

"Are you leaving then?" his eyes were cold on her back as she slowly made her way to the door.

"Yes."

"Coming back?"

"Never again. I'll end my lease early and be out of your hair, I promise."

The room chilled around her and the door to the stairs slammed shut before Molly could reach it. "No," Sherlock said, his voice firm.

Eyes wide, Molly whirled to face Sherlock as she went pale. "I don't understand. I promise I won't come back," she said quickly, edging away from the specter. "I'm sorry I came. Just-just let me leave again and I promise-"

"You were right," Sherlock interrupted. He said the words loudly, cutting through her budding panic as he stood and slowly walked towards her. She backed away, hand resting on the doorknob which was ice cold and wouldn't budge. Stopping in the middle of the room, he looked her in the eye. "I am miserable and dead and alone. I am waiting for someone who'll never come back. He swore he'd never come back and he's the type to always keep a promise. Richard Brook was a lie. Moriarty was real. And you-you figured that out on your own. So you're right. It's just me up here, desperately alone and I-" He looked away from her, a piece of broken glass on the floor suddenly becoming fascinating to him. She could see that he was trembling again as he quickly looked up at her and then away once more. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

Molly stared at him, her shoulders tight as she fought the desire to run. "What are you trying to say?"

"That I'm sorry for attempting to frighten you out. I'm sorry for all of this just now," Sherlock said, his eyes coming up far enough to stare at her chin. "I understand that you have found my actions repulsive and frightening, but I would like to offer you the chance to stay. If you still wish to that is."

She stayed silent watching Sherlock as he fidgeted, opening his hands and closing them over and over.

"I can do better," he blurted out, meeting her eyes. "If you don't leave, if you tell me what to do, I can do better. I know I can."

"There will have to be rules." Molly couldn't believe she was saying this. That she was deciding to stay after all. She had wanted her flat back, but Sherlock's pain and rage frightened her. And now she was telling him she was staying?

Sherlock seemed shocked as well. He stared at her, eyes wide, and nodded slightly. "Yes," he said quietly. "Of course. Rules. No more frightening you I suppose."

"The thing you do with the birds and the wind. Never do that again."

He nodded. "I won't appear to you as I seemed when I died anymore either."

"I couldn't care less about that Sherlock," Molly said. She slowly took a step forward. "I see death all the time. It doesn't bother me. What does bother me is the state of this flat. You're going to help me tidy it up and never do anything like this again."

"I don't want you bringing people over," Sherlock said. He watched wearily as Molly got closer. "I refuse to be a show for your friend's amusement."

"I want Carl to be able to come over for dinner sometimes."

"I will tolerate your brother. No friends though, no lovers. As for the cat-"

"Toby stays," Molly said firmly. "No violin after 11PM and you don't touch it until I wake up in the morning. You can play it all day if you like, just not when I'm trying to sleep."

"The room at the end of the hall is my bedroom and I want you out of it."

"Not a chance." Molly grinned at him and was surprised when Sherlock smiled tentatively back. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was a start. "No spying on me when I'm in the shower or getting dressed."

Sherlock scoffed. "Why would I even want to see that? I want my skull back on the mantle."

That threw Molly for a loop. "What skull?"

"Mr. Fellows," Sherlock said with a smirk. "He's in a box upstairs. I want him back on the mantle."

A skull on the mantle? She could handle that. After all, she could tell Carl she'd nicked it from work to make him go pale. "I think that's a good start. Do you have anything else to add?"

Sherlock looked pensive for a moment. "I like my coffee black with two sugars."

"Can you even drink coffee?" He glared at her slightly and she sighed, giving in. After all, he was making so many concessions for her. What was a skull and an extra cup of coffee each morning? "Fine," she said holding out her hand.

Wincing, Sherlock took a quick step back, his own hands going into his coat pockets. He stared at Molly's hand as if it were radioactive or housing a venomous spider. "And don't touch me," he added quickly. "Don't ever touch me. The heat of you… It burns."

It made sense, when she'd slapped him he'd felt like ice. Nodding, she withdrew her hand. "We have a deal then."

Sherlock nodded, eyes going to the floor once more. "If you wish for me to tidy up the flat you're going to have to leave again. I'll need to do the thing with the birds and the wind."

He was smirking at her, she realized. Smirking, teasing, and looking at her from the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. She smiled back. "Does that even have a name? Can all ghosts do it?"

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock said, shrugging slightly. "I've had little experience with ghosts."

Gathering up her things, Molly headed for the door. She left Sherlock in the sitting room and shrieked slightly when she opened the door to find him suddenly on the stairs again. "That!" she gasped, hand on her chest as she glared. "Don't do that anymore either!"

Ignoring her, Sherlock walked down the rest of the stairs and leaned up against the wall by the front door. "You will be returning."

It wasn't a question, but it needed an answer anyway. "Yes."

"When?"

While his face was impassive, his eyes were so desperately lonely that Molly felt her heart break. "I'll start moving back in tomorrow," she said, going down the stairs. "I probably won't be able to move-in properly until my next day off on Saturday though. I'm going to need to buy new furniture first to replace the stuff you wrecked."

Looking away, some place on the ceiling vastly more interesting than her glare of reproach, Sherlock crossed his arms. "There is a perfectly serviceable sofa in the upstairs room. Two comfortable chairs as well, along with a bookshelf, and some rather more stylish accessories. I know where they would fit."

"I'll take a look at them tomorrow then," Molly said. She had a sinking suspicion that all the things Sherlock mentioned had once been his and all he really wanted was for her to recreate his flat. "If I like them I'll get Carl to help me move them down."

Sherlock nodded slightly and looked at her. His eyes sucked her in, raking her form as if he was looking into her very soul and seeing her for the very first time. And then he smiled at her. "I will see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

Sherlock vanished and Molly stepped into the street, locking the door to 221 behind her. It was fall bordering on winter outside, but compared to the chill of the building it felt scorching. Her cuts finally came to life, starting to ache, and her legs threatened to give out from all the stress. Groaning, Molly rested her head against the door and wondered what she was getting herself in to.

From up above came the sound of a violin. The tune it played was neither happy nor sad. If anything it was content? Maybe hopeful?

Molly smiled and pocketed her keys.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly makes a friend and moves back into her own flat.

It turned out that 'tidying up' to Sherlock meant a pile of her broken furniture and possessions that nearly reached the ceiling and took up the majority of the sitting room. In a way she couldn't blame him for it, he was a ghost after all and she couldn't exactly expect him to be carrying trash to the curb, but it did make explaining things to Carl more than a little bit difficult.

"Jesus Christ," Carl muttered as they walked up into the flat together. His eyes widened as his fists clenched as he surveyed the damage. "Is this why you left? Christ, Molly. You're moving back in with me, forever if you have to, and I swear I won't complain again."

She could see Sherlock in the kitchen, a big pillar of black that stared at them intently. Molly went pale. Was he mad? Carl was going to freak when he spotted him - her brother would never let her move in with a dead man - but for whatever reason Carl walked right past Sherlock as if he wasn't even there. She raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged, looking disinterested as he slowly but surely faded from sight. Staring at the spot he had occupied Molly wondered, not for the first time, what she was getting herself into.

"I tidied up," Molly said. Grabbing his arm she looked Carl in the eyes and tried to project calm into her agitated younger brother. "It's really not so bad."

"There are scratches in the wallpaper, Mols!"

Molly bit her lip and tried her best not to look frightened. "I didn't like the wallpaper much anyway."

Carl stared at her flatly for a moment before shaking his head and pulling away. "I'm calling the cops."

Despite her protests, the police were called and before she knew it the police officer from before, Greg Lestrade, was coming up the stairs. He froze at the sight of her sitting room, eyes going wide as he took in the pile of broken furniture and glass. "Jesus Christ!"

"That's what I said."

Hurrying over to Molly, Lestrade took in Molly's bandaged limbs and his eyes went cold. "Are you alright?" he demanded. "He didn't hurt you did he?"

Molly froze. Did he mean Sherlock? Could he have meant Sherlock? But then Greg had all but told her that her flat was haunted the first time he'd been over and he had called out for Sherlock. Had Sherlock ever shown himself to Greg? To any of his friends? How many people besides her even knew that he was still there? She felt Carl's curious eyes on her and struggled to find a suitable explanation. She couldn't exactly talk to Greg about Sherlock with her brother in the flat after all.

"I fell when I was tidying up," she said weakly, taking a step back from the now furious police officer.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed further as he stared at her, but he turned his attention to Carl as the younger man spoke. "So what can we do now?" Carl asked. "File a report? Can you dust for prints? I can't let Molly move back in here if this is going to happen again."

"You're moving back in?" Lestrade asked, shocked.

Molly rolled her eyes at them both. "You're not my keeper, Carl. You aren't going to 'let me' do anything. This is my flat and I'm moving back in, discussion over. I'm sure this will never happen again."

"How can you be so certain?"

She couldn't well say that the ghost who'd destroyed her belongings in the first place had promised not to do it again - that would be mad - so she settled on the next best thing. "I've taken quotes and am going to get a security system installed," she said. Both men stared at her dubiously as she ignored them. "So are you going to help me get this junk out or not, Carl?"

In the end, despite both men protesting that she couldn't stay, they helped her carry the broken furniture to the curb, swept up the broken glass, and gathered up her undamaged possessions.

"At least the kitchen table's fine," Lestrade said as he carried a pile of her clothing into her bedroom to be hung back up later.

Molly looked down at the acid scarred, knife cut, burned table and glared at it. She had a feeling that it had originally been Sherlock's and when the man had thrown his ghostly temper tantrum he'd left his own possessions undamaged. "Too bad," she said. "The thing's absolutely ghastly. I'd love to replace it with something smaller and a bit nicer looking."

"Considering how much you're going to have to replace, I think you'll be glad to have it until you can afford something nicer," Lestrade said. He accepted the cuppa tea in the least chipped mug Molly could find and drank deeply. "What are you going to do about the wallpaper?"

"Take it down," Molly said, stirring sugar and milk into her own tea. "It's a bit fussy and Victorian for my tastes and with it being damaged I think I'll put something else up." Out of the corner of her eye she could see Sherlock lurking, staring at them with a scowl on his face. "Maybe something pink with flowers."

Lestrade winced at the thought, frowning as he stared at the spray painted and shot smiley face on the wall. "I suppose it's your flat after all."

"Yes. Yes it is," Molly said, casting a quick glare to Sherlock who scowled deeper and flounced away. "You know, as much as I appreciate your help you really don't have to be here, Detective Chief Inspector. Carl and I can get this all on our own."

"It's my day off," Lestrade said. He frowned as Molly began to protest, waving away her concerns. "Trust me, I really don't have anything I'd rather be doing right now. If your brother hadn't called in I'd be in my pants watching crap telly and having a booze up. Which really isn't something you should be making a habit of in your fifties." At Molly's questioning look he shrugged. "The wife and I finally separated two years ago and she took most of the friends with her. And even though I was cleared in the end of wrong doing, the whole Sherlock scandal got rid of most of my friends in the force. I swear they promoted me just to get me out of everyone's hair. Management's a bitch."

Molly's lips tightened into a straight line as she stared into her mug. "The Sherlock scandal? I've been, well, I've been reading about that. Moriarty was real, wasn't he?"

For a moment Lestrade stood there, his face a mask as he stared off into the distance at something only he could see. "Yeah, Moriarty was real. Sherlock was innocent all along," he said with a sigh. "But what does that matter? They both offed themselves and even if we could prove Richard Brooke was a fake what would that change? Sherlock would still be dead, Mrs. Hudson's heart would still be broken, and John would still be in Africa doing God knows what with his life."

Molly thought of the fake NHS number, of all the evidence she had uncovered, but didn't say anything. After all, how could she explain to the DCI that she'd broken the law in an attempt to get to know the ghost in her flat better? It sounded mad even to her. Despite Sherlock making occasional appearances as they moved stuff down to the curb, no one but her seemed to notice him and that more than anything else confirmed to her that he had to be a ghost. After all, it was one thing to see a strange man who you couldn't explain in your home when you were alone but it entirely another to see a strange man in your home that only you could see. Either Sherlock was a ghost and she was one of the few people who could see him or somehow she'd fallen prey to a complete mental break and was suffering from the strangest case of schizophrenia she'd ever heard of. And while she'd never done a psyche rotation she consoled herself that she was too old to be developing schizophrenia without prior warning. Hopefully.

The silence was going on for too long and Greg was looking at her oddly. He seemed to want to ask her something but as soon as he opened his mouth, she interrupted him and hoped that would be enough to distract him. "Who's John?"

"John Watson. He was Sherlock's flatmate and probably the best friend he ever had. Maybe his only friend. Lord knows I wasn't a good friend to him in the end." He gazed at the floor for a long moment, moisture lurking in his eyes as Carl trudged back up the stairs, the last box deposited at the curb for the dustmen's pickup. "So how 'bout it Molly? You got anything else that needs doing?"

Molly frowned, biting her lip. "You really don't have to keep helping Detective Chief Inspec-"

"It's Greg, and I'm happy to help. Being up here again brings back memories."

"Happy memories?"

He smiled at her kindly, setting down his mug. "Memories."

*****

Despite her protests, Greg stayed long enough to help Carl move down the furniture from the upstairs room. The things there were nice – masculine, dark, and very, very expensive – and while they really weren't her style they would do until she could save up enough to buy something new. Sherlock had been practically giddy, dancing around the sitting room popping here then there as he instructed Molly as to where exactly each piece of furniture was to go. At first she had tried ignoring him – she wasn't about to go recreating his flat for him! – but he pouted and harangued her and she couldn't exactly snap back at him with company in the flat so eventually she gave in and had the men arrange the furniture just as he said.

"Oh, that's weird," Lestrade said as Carl ran to go pick up Chinese and beer. A box of Sherlock's old books was in his arms as he stood frozen in the doorway to the flat, eyes wide as he stared at the sitting room. "The room's just the way it was when Sherlock was here."

"I'm still here you twit," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. He was firmly ensconced in one of the dark armchairs looking as if she'd need an exorcism to get him out. Hands tightly gripping the arms he gazed at the box for a moment before looking to Molly. "Those go on the bookshelf. Alphabetical order by subject then title."

She did her best to ignore him, following Greg into the kitchen where he'd set down the box. "Well there's only so many way to arrange a sitting room and we are using all of his old furniture," she lied. Opening the box, she began pulling out the books one by one, checking the titles and flipping through the pages as she sorted them between the things she'd like to keep and the ones she'd probably end up getting rid of. There wasn't any reason to keep a book on… Medieval Accounting in the Papal Churches? She blinked at that wondering why on earth Sherlock would have been reading a book on that subject.

"It is all right that we're using his furniture, is it?"

Lestrade shrugged and took a seat. "I don't see why not. As far as I know his brother never came by for any of his possessions and John never wanted any of it either. Mrs. Hudson ended up donating quite a bit of it but, as you can see, she didn't have the heart to get rid of all of it."

Molly thought of the piles of dusty brown cardboard boxes all labeled 'Sherlock' in black cursive writing and frowned. There was a man's life still up in her spare room and what with his ghost still lurking in her flat she wasn't sure what to do with it all. Well for one thing a lot of these books were going to the charity shop, she thought to herself as she pulled out a thick tome on beekeeping. While quite a few of the books looked to be medical related and could be useful, the rest would just be taking up room. The clothes – excepting the big black coat she'd found hanging on the back of the upstairs door – had already been taken away and the box she'd found full of pinned insects could go to a school or university. The rest she'd sort through later after the boys were gone and she could argue with Sherlock as to what to keep and get rid of in peace.

"Is there anything that you wanted?" she asked. Greg looked at her oddly for a moment, clocking his head to one side. "You know, to remember him by."

Greg's lip twitched and he frowned, rubbing at the back of his head. "Actually, well, yes there is." For a moment he looked at her embarrassed, face flushing a faint pink. "There was a hat I gave him, a cheap deerstalker. I have no idea if he even kept it, but if you'd find it I'd really appreciate having it."

"Why on earth would he want that?" Sherlock asked, suddenly at her elbow. She jumped at his sudden appearance and at the cold he radiated, letting out a little squeak of panic.

"All right there Molly?"

"F-Fine!" Molly said. Blushing, she ignored Lestrade's look of concern as she turned away and busily repacked the box. "Just thought I saw a mouse."

Lestrade looked wildly around him, frowning. "Did you? Well, that's expected considering how old this flat is and considering how empty it's been. Do you want me to get you some traps?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's fine. I can buy them, it's just fine."

"You didn't ask him about the hat, Molly," Sherlock said. He glared at her hotly and gestured to the man. "Ask him about the hat."

"No!"

"What was that?" Lestrade asked, looking at her oddly.

She floundered for a moment, feeling her skin go beet red as Greg stared and Sherlock glared at her. "K-Know what? I think I'll go look for that hat right now!" she said, covering lamely.

"Do you want any help?"

"No, no! I'll be fine! You just have a sit down and yell when Carl gets back with the food," she said, nearly fleeing the room. Hurrying up the stairs she gently shut the door behind her before turning back to the upstairs room. "Sherlock? Sherlock!" she hissed.

"What?" the consulting ghost asked, voice petulant, as he appeared directly next to her. She jumped and squeaked loudly at his sudden appearance. "Stop doing that, it makes you look moronic and even Lestrade is bound to notice you reacting to things that aren't here. Also, you didn't ask him about the hat despite me telling you to do so twice."

"You're the one who keeps appearing without warning despite promising me yesterday that you'd stop doing that. Now, what's so special about this bloody hat?" Molly nearly growled, stalking over to a box and pulling it open.

Sherlock actually looked a bit embarrassed as he walked over to stand behind her, watching over her shoulder as she rummaged about. "I never understood it," he said, frowning slightly. "A rather unflattering photograph of me was taken while I was wearing that hat and for some reason the world went mad over it." He scowled deeply. "They even printed that photo for my obituary."

She'd seen that picture and flushed at the memory of it. She hadn't found it unflattering at all. In fact, if anything, it was exceedingly flattering. "Oh, that hat."

His glare turned to her. "You've seen the photograph then? Ghastly wasn't it?"

Humming a non-comment she continued to search the box. "You wouldn't happen to know where it is?" she asked, reaching the bottom of the box. Refolding the top closed she set it aside and went to the next box, pulling it open to reveal stack after stack of printed files. "You didn't get rid of it, did you?"

"No," Sherlock said with a sigh. Glancing around the boxes for a moment, he made a gesture that caused a stack of boxes to fall over, their contents spilling out. "There it is," he said, ignoring her glare. "John put it on top of my skull when he was packing. Then he just began weeping for some reason."

Molly glared at him as she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs. The door flew open, hitting Sherlock and passing through him as Greg burst into the room. "Everything all right up here?" he asked. "I heard a crash."

"Everything's fine. A couple boxes fell over is all," Molly said, sighing. She brightened up considerably as she picked up the aforementioned skull, the deerstalker perched jauntily on top of its head. "On the plus side I found the hat!"

*****

Carl had arrived home soon after that laden down with bags of food and booze, all of which he promptly dropped as soon as he caught sight of the grinning, hatted skull that was now resting on the mantle. "What the hell is that!?" he shouted pointing at the skull, horror on his face.

"Do you like it?" Molly asked. She was smiling as she set out the paper plates she'd run out to buy, Lestrade helping by opening up and setting out the box of plastic cutlery while Sherlock sat at the table, looking bored. "I found it upstairs. It's the skull of a man between the ages of 35 and 50, white, poor dental history, and judging from the oxidation, he probably died about 60 years ago. Give me a bit of time in the lab and I could tell you more."

"It's creepy," Carl muttered. Giving the mantle a wide berth, he picked up the bags and set them on the table. "You're creepy too, Mols. With your training you could be doing surgery on live people and saving lives, but all you do is hang out with the dead ones in the morgue."

She frowned at that, her nose wrinkling as she mock glared at her brother. "I like the morgue, it's quiet and peaceful," she protested. "Besides, when you're doing autopsies the most you have to worry about is getting the cause of death wrong instead of causing a death. And with that you can always open 'em up for another look if your results don't make sense."

All three men, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Carl, stared at her oddly for that and she flushed, looking away. "Not before dinner?"

"Not ever, Mols," Carl said with a sigh, pulling out a bottle of beer and cracking it open. "You know I hate hearing about your work."

"Sorry."

Lestrade sat at the table with them, snagging a carton of dim sum and started to pile his plate high. "You know, I could send one of my forensic guys over to pick up that skull if you want, Molly," he offered as he also snagged an egg roll.

"Anderson," Sherlock growled from his seat at the head of the table. "He's an idiot, Molly. Don't let him into the flat, ever."

"Not necessary," Molly said, smiling. "I rather like the skull. He'll be the quietest flatmate I've ever had."

Sherlock scowled at her. "Was that a reference to me? Don't make jokes, Molly."

Carl picked at his lo mein, a look of disgust on his face. "Well that just guarantees that this is the last time I'm visiting you," he drawled. He stared at his food, frowning. "Is it just me or do these noodles look like entrails to anybody else?"

"They look nothing like entrails. Healthy, fresh entrails are typically pink to red with a nice glossy sheen to them. The older they are, the greyer they get so really it's sausages that look more like entrails. Which makes sense as most sausage casings typically are entrails. Sheep, pig, or cow being the most widely used with pig being the most common."

Carl's fork dropped from his hand with a clack and he groaned, pushing away his plate. "Thank you for that, Mols," he said, glaring at her. "Not only have I lost my appetite, but I don't think I'm ever going to eat sausage again. I used to love sausage."

Molly shrugged, smiling at him widely. "Your arteries will thank me for that later."

Lestrade laughed and took a big bite out of his egg roll. "God I've missed this," he sighed. Smiling widely, he took a deep drink from his beer and explained. "Back before everything happened John and I would go out drinking with Mike Stamford – you know Mike, right Molly? – and just have a night of it. We'd always try to drag Sherlock off with us but he always refused saying drink interfered with his 'mind palace' and that boy's nights were dull."

"Mind palace?" Carl asked, frowning at him.

Lestrade shrugged. "Some sort of memory thing. We'd be in the middle of a case and then he'd all of a sudden yell at us to shut up so he could 'go to his mind palace' and then he'd go all stiff and stare at the wall. I think the prat did it so we'd all just be quiet."

"I most certainly did not!" Sherlock protested, glaring. "My mind palace was a carefully constructed memory device designed to hold vast amounts of information in the most logical and retainable manner possible." Leaning back in the chair he crossed his arms over his chest and openly sulked.

"I don't get it," Carl said. He continued to play with his food as Molly tried to stifle a grin at Sherlock's antics. "Everything I read in the papers and everything you've said made the guy sound like he was this massive git. So why did you even put up with him? Why didn't you just tell him to piss off and kick him off your cases? He couldn't have been that vital."

Sherlock didn't have anything to say to that, though his eyes went to the Detective Chief Inspector and stayed there as he waited for an answer. Molly found herself looking at him too as the older man played with his food, staring blankly at the plate.

"He was a git," Greg finally said, looking up at them. Sherlock scoffed and leapt to his feet, moving to leave the table but paused when Lestrade continued. "He was our git though and if I had known that arresting him would have ended with him jumping off of Barts I never would have done it. I thought that after we got him to the prescient he'd just have to answer a few questions and we'd get the whole mess cleared up. I never thought – I never dreamed-"

Without a word, Sherlock vanished from sight as a tear began to course its way down Lestrade's face. He laughed cheerlessly, brushing it away as he flashed a fake smile at them.

"Ha, look at me. Barely know each other and yet here I am going all maudlin on you."

"It's fine," Molly said. Reaching across the table she rested her hand on his, though her eyes kept drifting to where Sherlock had been. "Sometimes you need a stranger to talk about these sorts of things."

She didn't see Sherlock again for the rest of the night. Carl had changed the subject right after that, pulling out a deck of cards and challenging them both to a hand of poker as Molly packed up the uneaten food for later. Lestrade had pointed out that he'd just asked an officer of the law to partake in an illegal game, but Carl quickly insisted it would just be for fun and that no money would change hands.

Good thing too.

Molly's poker face was unreadable and she easily wiped the floor with the other men, accumulating thousands in (fake) pounds before Lestrade laid down his cards in disgust and called it a night. Carl decided that he'd had enough himself and the two men left together, Greg offering to give him a lift as the buses were about to stop running. She'd smiled as she watched them go, feeling happy and maybe just a little bit tipsy as she tidied up the flat and put the leftover beers in the fridge for later. She hadn't had the chance to relax and let her hair down since moving to London what with the stress of finding a flat and then finding out it was haunted. It felt good to meet someone who she could call a friend. Or at least she thought she and Greg could be friends. He'd promised to pop by the next time he had a body in the morgue so she and his forensics guy – Anderson, Sherlock had called him – could meet and consult together.

It wasn't the same as meeting for lunch or sharing a coffee, but Molly had never really been good at the whole 'friendship' thing. Something about her working in a morgue tended to turn people off, but Greg didn't really seem bothered by that.

Humming to herself, she staggered a little as she made her way to her bedroom and collapsed on the mattress. Sherlock had destroyed the frame and her bed was a double where he'd had a queen so the mattress was just sitting on the floor as if it was a uni student's flat. It would be okay for now, but she'd really have to get a new bed frame first thing. Maybe something with drawers underneath for extra storage? She'd seen a cute one in an ad for Ikea the other day. Snuggling into her pillows, she barely remembered to take out her contacts before succumbing to sleep.

She dreamed she was on the roof of Barts again standing on the edge, her arms outstretched as she stared down at the unsuspecting people below her. For some reason her head felt fuzzy as she stood there, wavering in the rushing wind, dimly aware that there was someone standing at her shoulder hissing in her ear.

"Jump."

Frowning at that, she slowly shook her head and tried to take a step back only to find the man had grabbed ahold of her shoulders and was slowly pushing her towards the edge. She tried to struggle against him but her limbs felt heavy, dull, and she could only watch as her feet inched their way to toppling her over.

Someone was shouting her name. Calling it over and over. She looked over her shoulder to see who it was, saw Sherlock running towards her – his face bloody and his expression panicked – and she smiled at the sight of him.

And then she went over the edge.

She awoke sweating as gasping for breath, clutching at the blankets as Sherlock watched her impassively from his seat on the edge of her bed. "About time you woke up. I've been trying to wake you for the last fifteen minutes," he said.

She jumped at his voice and began fumbling for her glasses. "Sherlock!" she gasped. "What are you doing? You scared the hell out of me with that dream! You promised not to do that anymore!"

Reaching out Sherlock dropped her glasses on her lap, frowning as he did so. "What dream?" he asked. "I can't affect your dreams, Molly."

"Of course you can! You did it that night you scared me out of the flat. You made me dream about being on the roof of Barts. About falling!"

He gazed at her a moment, still frowning, before slowly shaking his head. "You have an exceedingly active imagination, Molly. Your mind must have been recreating bits and pieces from the news stories you read. I don't have the power to send people dreams."

The dream was fading rapidly from her mind, the images fading to a blur with only the feeling of confusion and helplessness remaining. Shaking her head to clear it, Molly rubbed at her temples. "It felt so real."

"Perhaps my trying to wake you was also to blame?" Sherlock offered. "You could have latched onto my voice and created a scenario from that."

"Maybe." It was still dark out, the faint glow of street lights the only illumination in the room as Molly looked around for her alarm clock. Groaning, she remembered that Sherlock had shattered it and now it was on the curb waiting for pickup. "What time is it?"

"3AM," Sherlock answered promptly. "We need to talk."

"3AM!? Sherlock, I have work tomorrow."

"Not until 2. You're working the 2PM to midnight shift and staying on call until 7AM in an attempt to make a little extra money for reasons that escape me."

She sighed at that, rolling over until her back was to him. "I have furniture to replace because someone went and destroyed all mine."

"All you need is to buy a queen sized mattress and bed linens to match and you'll be fine," said Sherlock. "My furniture will suit you quite well."

"I don't want your furniture, Sherlock. I want-"

"Overly feminine floral pieces that look like they are destined to end up in a maiden Aunt's house covered in doilies and cat hair?" Sherlock snapped, suddenly appearing on the other side of the bed so he could scowl into Molly's eyes. "You should be thanking me for postponing that fate and besides, I said that we need to talk."

Molly glared up at him and nearly started yelling when she noticed the faintest traces of worry in Sherlock's eyes. He was twitching in his seat on her bed, fidgeting terribly as he sat there staring down at her intently. With a sigh, she sat up to meet his gaze. "Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

"Lestrade. He isn't to come here again."

"Why not?" Molly asked, frowning. "He was your friend, wasn't he?"

"I didn't have friends," Sherlock sneered, looking as if Molly had accused him of molesting animals and selling crack to toddlers out the back door. "He's not to come again. I didn't like how he spoke of me."

She racked her brain trying to figure out what Greg could have said to offend Sherlock's obviously delicate sensibilities. "What didn't you like?" she asked, confused. "He's obviously missing you."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away to glare at the wall. "I highly doubt that. His case load has obviously increased since my death leading him to realize what a useful tool I was for the Yard and to miss my skills, Molly. No one misses me."

"Sherlock, I somehow doubt-"

"Besides," he interrupted, still staring at the wall. "You agreed yesterday that you would bring no friends or significant others to the flat. While I agreed to an exception to your brother, this does not extend to Lestrade which means he is to not come again. Do you understand or must I use smaller words to explain this to you?"

"There's no reason to be like that," Molly said hotly, glaring at him. "Also, if we're talking about our agreement I believe that I asked you to stop popping in and out of existence like some sort of demonic jack-in-the-box. Look, I understand that it was hard to see your friend hurting but there's no need to take it out on me. I haven't done anything to you besides run off when you frighten me and come crawling back for Lord knows what demented reasons I give myself. You're the one who hurt your friends jumping off that bloody building and you're the one that's stuck here as a ghost and none of that is my bloody fault!"

She was panting by the time she was done, furious beyond words but already regretting her words. Sherlock's eyes had gone to the floor and he was sitting hunched into himself as if he expected her to physically strike at him. He looked so lost sitting on her floral duvet, wrapped in his big black coat as if that would protect him from her wrath.

"Sherlock, I-"

"No," he said softly. "Don't take it back. You're absolutely correct. I did have the choice and I chose to jump fully knowing what it would do to the ones I was leaving behind. I just didn't-" he held up one of his hands, looking at and through his semi-transparent flesh, "-I didn't expect this, Molly. It's not fair."

She sighed and nodded, wishing that she could wrap her arms around the man before him and hold him until he let the pain out. "Life isn't fair, Sherlock. That's the problem, isn't it? If life was fair we wouldn't be here right now. You'd be alive or in heaven right now and I'd never even be able to dream of renting this flat."

"I don't believe in heaven."

"Maybe that's your problem."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "That I don't believe in a supernatural plane of existence where people who are arbitrarily labeled as 'good' go after they die?"

She reached out to touch the space right in front of his knee, her eyes boring into his. "That you're stuck here because you don't know where else to go."

They sat there for a long moment, staring at each other silently until Sherlock reached out to touch the duvet directly next to where Molly's hand rested. "Your mother and father are both dead. An accident claimed your mother when you were young while you father died of cancer, lung cancer most likely. Are you certain that they both went to heaven or some other equivalent?"

"I hope so."

"Why?"

"Because if they're stuck here like you and alone I'll never forgive myself."

Sherlock seemed surprised at that, his eyes searching her face as his hand inched closer to hers. "You're different, Molly Hooper," he finally said, breaking the silence. "You're not like the others. How are you different?"

"Simple," she said with a smile, "I can see you."

His face softened at that as his eyes went down to their hands. They were a hair's breadth apart and she could feel the chill radiating out of him and wondered if he could feel her heat. "I want to try something," he said.

Brow furrowing, he gently tugged at the duvet until the fabric covered Molly's hand and met the cotton of her long sleeved top. Nodding to himself he squared his shoulders and firmly pressed his hand down on top of hers and it- it didn't hurt. She could feel the chill of him as it spread through the blanket and into her flesh, but the lances of pain that accompanied touching him weren't there.

"How-"

"I was thinking about when you slapped me," Sherlock said. His fingers surrounded her hand more carefully through the blanket and he squeezed it experimentally. "No one's been able to lay a hand on me before you and I was wondering how you were different. At first I thought it was because of something to do with you uniquely, but later you were unable to touch me so I came up with some different theories. This seemed the most plausible."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "But you're touching me!"

"No I'm not," he said with a smirk. "I'm touching a blanket which happens to be touching your skin. When you slapped me you were wearing a long sleeved top which was partially covering your hand, enabling you to strike me." His fingers caressed the back of her hand through the fabric of the duvet as his eyes stayed riveted to her own. "We're not touching at all."

Her eyes stayed on his though her heart was now racing. Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, pools of light blue that seemed to suck her in and pierce into her soul at the same time. How could anyone's eyes be so blue? He looked so ethereal, despite the floral duvet he sat on, that it was suddenly no surprise to her that he was dead. No one that beautiful could be real. Sherlock was an angel or perhaps more likely a demon who'd forgotten the way home and now she was trapped with him and oh God what was she going to do?

"That's brilliant," she breathed. "You're brilliant."

"Yes, I am," he agreed. His thumb continued to stroke her flesh beneath the blanket as he stared at her intently. A frown slowly crossed his face and he suddenly vanished, reappearing in front of her closed bedroom door, a blank look on his face as he gazed down at her.

"I'm glad we've had this little chat, but I'll leave you to your sleep now," he said. Turning, he walked through her door as if it wasn't even there, vanishing from her sight.

Molly frowned at the door for a long moment before collapsing back on her bed with a grunt. Confused and more than a little disturbed, she buried her face in her pillows and tried to force herself back to sleep. It didn't work.

As dawn slowly rose over the buildings of London, Molly stared out the window and wondered again what on earth was she going to do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly does an autopsy and goes out for drinks.

“Hey Molly, could I ask you a favor?” Mike Stamford asked as he walked into the morgue.

Molly glanced up at him, smiling behind her mask. She was wrist deep in Mr. Thomas Randolf – 62, black, a bit overweight, and a construction worker who had died of what she suspected was a heart attack before falling into wet cement – but she pulled back and slowly removed her gloves as Mike approached. She liked Mike. He was nice, didn’t seem to think of her as ‘that strange girl in the morgue,’ and kept the students out of her way so she could do her research in peace.

“Of course!” she chirped, binning the gloves in the biohazard bin and removing her smock. “What do you need, Mike?”

Looking a bit nervous, Mike offered her a folder which she took without hesitation. “You really don’t have to do it if it would make you uncomfortable, but I’d really appreciate it if you could perform this autopsy.”

“Why would it make me uncomfortable?” she asked. She opened the folder, her eyes automatically going to the picture of the victim and she frowned, letting out a little sigh. “Oh.”

Pricilla Williams, 8 years old. Her photo was a candid home shot showing her smiling widely on a swing set, her red curly hair aflame in the sunlight. According to the notes as she skimmed them, Pricilla had come in to get a faulty heart valve replaced three days ago and had died in recovery two hours ago.

“Oh that’s sad,” Molly sighed, continuing to read the folder. “This is right up my alley with my research though Mike, why would I turn it down?”

“Well, you know,” Mike said. He shifted awkwardly on his feet and gave her a weak smile. “It’s a kid.”

She smiled at him softly. “I know, but I’m sorry to say that Miss. Pricilla won’t be the youngest I’ve ever had to work on and I doubt she’ll be the last.” Shutting the folder, she looked at Mike. “I’m a bit stretched at the moment, but I’ll try and squeeze Miss. Pricilla in before the end of the day.”

“Not necessary. Her parents are still with her at the moment and haven’t released the body yet. She can wait until morning.”

“Alright,” Molly said nodding. “I’ll get to her first thing tomorrow then.”

“Thank you, Molly.” Mike smiled at her gratefully looking relieved beyond words. “I was hoping you’d be able to fit her in. She was such a sweet child and you’re so good with them.”

Molly blinked at that. “Children?”

“No, no,” Mike said, blushing slightly. “The bodies. You treat them, I don’t know, right somehow. You’re so gentle with them and treat them like they’re still alive instead of dead.”

Molly flushed hotly, turning away to hide her scarlet face as she reached for her bloodied smock. “Thank you, Mike. I just… have had a lot of practice I guess.”

*****

“Cooee, Molly!” Lestrade called out as she slipped inside the pub after her shift was over.

Smiling and waving, she stopped over at the bar and ordered herself a pint before weaving her way through the small crowd to their regular table. “Carl here yet?” she asked, taking a seat next to the older man.

“Here and already striking out,” Lestrade laughed, gesturing to the corner where her brother was attempting to chat up an extremely bored looking girl. “I keep telling him not to pull the first girl who strikes his fancy, but you know how your brother is.”

“Desperate for female companionship?”

“That’s the one.”

They laughed into their drinks together, watching amusedly as Carl was blown off by the pretty girl. Ever since Greg had helped her move back into her flat she, Carl, and Greg had been meeting at the pub near Carl’s for drinks every Tuesday. It was nice. Greg didn’t like going to copper bars since he’d been promoted, she got to socialize with people who weren’t dead, and Carl got two shoulders to cry on after he struck out with every girl at the pub. Greg had even taken to trying to give the poor man lessons. 

Despite her brother’s handsome face and muscular frame, he was quite shy around women, but Greg was most certainly not. They’d made it an art, Greg chatting up women before turning them over to Carl with Molly giggling tipsily in the background as she hoped that her brother would find someone at last. Last week Carl had announced that he was ready to strike out on his own, a proclamation that had evidently come too soon as he’d not gotten a phone number since.

“Oh that’s just sad,” Greg sighed as Carl fell over himself to buy the woman he was talking to a drink. As he scrambled away she began checking out her nails, yawning widely. “Something has to be done about that. Care to make a bet?”

Molly laughed, shaking her head. “You always win!”

“That’s just because you never make it tough enough,” Lestrade said, grinning at her. “Come on, Molly. A drink is on the line here.”

“Fine, fine.” Molly eyed the pretty blond woman carefully, thinking carefully as she sipped her pint. “Six words. I bet you a drink that you can’t convince her to go home with you in six words.”

“Six-? Oh come on, Molly! That’s not a fair one.”

She grinned back as Lestrade impishly, pushing his nearly empty glass closer to him. “You just said you needed a harder challenge.”

Lestrade stared at her flatly before grabbing his glass and draining the rest of the liquid quickly. “Right then,” he said, standing. “Six words. Six words. Bloody hell, six words.”

Still smiling, Molly watched eagerly as Lestrade sauntered over to the woman and brazenly leaned over to whisper in her ear. Pulling back, he grinned at her widely as the woman flushed and-

Her hand struck his face with a loud slap, his head jerking to the right as the woman leapt to her feet. “Of all the rude, overly friendly, presumptuous-“ she raged as she stalked out of the pub.

Greg looked up at her, rubbing his cheek as he walked back to their table. “I owe you a drink.”

Carl joined them a moment later two drinks in his hands and a scowl on his face. “I can’t believe you went and scared her off, Greg. I had a chance with that one!”

“No you didn’t,” both she and Greg chorused as their chips were finally delivered. Happily grabbing a handful, Molly smiled at the taste of salt, grease, and vinegar on her lips. “I’m sorry to say it, but you didn’t have a chance Carl.”

“Well, maybe not,” Carl sighed, sinking down in his seat. “But I could have used a pity fuck at least. My balls are starting to go blue!”

Greg laughed as Molly threw chips at her brother’s head, yelling at him. Finishing their drinks quickly, they headed out into the warm night air. The city had been trapped in the hottest July on record and even though the sun was threatening to set, Molly could feel the sweat start to form on her back as they walked along in search of a cab. It was times like this that Sherlock really was useful she thought, giggling to herself. Her flat, like most of London, had no air conditioner but Sherlock was a naturally born – dead? – ice box. Having him about meant that she didn’t have to try to lug a window unit home on the Tube or fill her home with fans. At the rate she was saving money on electricity she would be able to hire someone to get that dreadful wallpaper down and repaint the flat within a month.

“You know what we should do?” said Carl, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We should go to a disco.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lestrade said. He stared at him as if he’d grown a second or maybe even a third head. “Have you noticed how old we are? Once you hit thirty no one goes dancing at a disco, Carl. That’s for young people and people who have no taste or self respect.”

“Aw come on! There’s sure to be plenty of girls there. Ones that are looking for a steady older man to take them under their wing and teach them how to fly.”

“And that’s where I’m out,” Molly sighed, rolling her eyes. At Carl’s whine of protest she shook her head firmly and started walking faster. “Not interested, Carl. I’m not going to spend all night trying to help you hook up with women and drinking sadly by myself with Greg. I’ve got an important autopsy tomorrow morning and I’m not about to get so sloshed that it interferes with my work.”

“Important autopsy? We didn’t send anyone over to you, did we?” Greg asked, meeting her pace easily.

“Oh, no. It’s a little girl who died after surgery. I’m just checking to see where things went wrong.”

Carl winced, feet shuffling as he went a little green and stared at the ground. It didn’t matter how many times they did it, but every time Greg or Molly started talking about work it always made him feel ill. “Well I’m going to go to the disco without you two then. I’m going to find a nice girl and I’m going to shag her and there’s nothing either of you can do to stop me.”

“I could arrest you,” Greg offered with a smile. “But I won’t, not tonight. Come on, Molly. I’ll walk ya home.”

Waving goodbye to her brother, Molly and Greg continued down the sidewalk as the sun finally gave up and set. The shadows lengthened as the street lights came on creating oases of light in the darkness. 

“You really didn’t have to walk me home every time,” Molly said as they finally reached Baker Street and paused in front of her dark building.

“Course I do,” Greg said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled down at her warmly as she dug through her purse to fetch out her keys. “I’m a copper and I deal with murders, Molly. I can’t risk the best pathologist Barts has on staff getting mugged and hurt on her way home. I’d be stuck with only Anderson to do the forensic work then.”

Molly smiled softly, laughing. “He’s not so bad.”

“Only because I read him the riot act and threatened to sack him if he tried to hit on you,” Lestrade grumbled. “The man’s an idiot and a womanizer. I don’t know how, but he convinced my best Lieutenant to sleep with him and once the higher ups found out he blamed her and left her high and dry.” He sighed, glaring at the sidewalk. “It was all I could do not to keep her from being sacked. Donovan was a brilliant officer, one of my best, but she got transferred to Cardiff because of that idiot.”

“Donovan?” Molly muttered, brow crinkling. “That name… wasn’t she the whistleblower who got Sherlock arrested?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said fondly, leaning back against her wall. “A real stickler for the rules, Donovan is, but she’s a damn fine officer. I was sorry to see her go, but she’s doing well in Cardiff. She e-mails sometimes and so far seems to be doing better than me.”

Molly smiled at that, putting her key in the door. “Thank you for walking me home Greg. See you next Tuesday?”

“Well actually, no,” he said, shifting from foot to foot and suddenly looking nervous. “I have a friend in Australia that contacted me recently. He asked me to come over for a bit of a visit and I couldn’t really say no to him. Haven’t seen the man in years and I do have quite a bit of vacation saved up.”

“Oh. Well I hope you have fun. You deserve it,” Molly said, opening the door. She could see Sherlock hovering up on the top of the stairs, a big pillar of black that radiated ice. Shivering slightly, she turned back to Greg and smiled. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow actually. I’m flying out on the redeye and will be back in a couple of weeks.”

“The pub won’t be as fun without you.”

He grinned at that, pushing himself away from the wall. “I’ll see ya around then, Molly?”

“Of course!” She hugged him tightly, smiling at the scent of cigarettes and aftershave that hung to the older man’s shirt. “Call me when you get back?”

“Can do.” With a whistle and a sudden bounce in his step, Lestrade turned to go.

“You two are getting rather chummy,” Sherlock hissed in her ear. 

Jumping, she turned to find him already gone. Shutting the door slowly, she walked up the stairs to her icebox of a flat, her breath puffing out before her in icy crystals as she climbed the stairs. Reaching for the heavy wool jumper she kept by the door, Molly tugged it on over her light sundress and switched her cute sandals for fuzzy slippers. Sherlock was in a sulk, curled up on the couch like a great lump in his dressing gown which meant that things really were bad.

Temporarily ignoring the ghost, she padded her way to the bedroom and quickly changed into the heaviest sweats she could find. Toby was curled up on her bed under her blankets and she sighed, patting him gently before adding another blanket on top of him.

“I’ll just go see what it is this time,” she soothed the cat. “Maybe his favorite soap got cancelled?”

To be honest, Molly wasn’t sure how Sherlock had even functioned before she moved back in. The man was an absolute terror, bouncing between periods of energy and euphoria and dark sulks that could last for days. He needed to be constantly amused as well prompting Molly to start sneaking back autopsy reports for unsolved murders for him just so that he would have something to do and to leave her alone. The day he had discovered that if he took his time and concentrated he could use her laptop had been a happy one. For a week now he’d been content to surf the web 24 hours a day and while Molly missed checking her e-mail, anything was better than the sulk.

Yet, for some reason the dressing gown was back.

In the months that she’d been back in the flat, she’d quickly learned that Sherlock’s clothing was like a barometer for his mood. If he was happy and confident he appeared in a button up and suit, the ethereal buttons straining to keep the shirt over his chest. If he was a bit sad, uncertain, or angry out came the big black coat and the blue scarf around his neck. And if he was grumpy and in the mood to sulk then it was ratty pajamas and a dressing gown. She’d seen that look the most over the last two months. Once, she’d asked him how he managed to go about changing his clothes – being a ghost and all – only for Sherlock to give her an odd look and ask her what she was talking about. She’d tried to explain, but he’d only stared at her blankly before flouncing away with a shrug, stating that the appearance of his body didn’t matter and she would do better to focus on other matters which Molly believed was Sherlock-speak for “Bugger if I know.”

Yet as she reentered the sitting room, Molly realized with dread that this wasn’t just the dressing gown. This was the ratty dressing gown with no shirt and the pajama pants that looked like they’d had acid poured over them. That combined with the moody stare and the freezing cold room meant that Sherlock was in one of those moods and that her home life was destined to become a lot less pleasant.

Putting the kettle on, she shuffled back into the sitting room and stood over the ghost, hands on her hips. “Well?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. “What is it then?”

“What is what? Be more specific to what you are referring to, Molly.”

Rolling her eyes she moved to the foot of the couch, carefully sitting below Sherlock’s feet. Without a word she gently draped a blanket over his semi-transparent form before patting him gently on the thigh. Sherlock’s lip twitched and he shuffled a little, but he didn’t protest so she kept her hand on his leg as a comforting weight. If Sherlock was in the sort of mood where he wouldn’t even acknowledge that he was in a mood then she had to fix whatever was bothering him quickly or risk this going on for days.

“I meant, what’s the matter with you?”

“There is nothing ‘the matter’ with me,” Sherlock said quickly, eyes still on the ceiling.

“You’re sulking, Sherlock.”

“Evidence?”

“You’re in the horrid dressing gown, you’re in a ball on the sofa, you’re pouting, and the room is cold enough to make a penguin homesick for Antarctica.”

Sherlock scoffed loudly, finally looking to her. “You’re exaggerating.”

Opening her mouth Molly exhaled, her hot breath crystallizing and fogging instantly as it hit the freezing air. Sherlock watched it dispassionately before looking away again.

“I don’t pout,” he grumbled. The temperature of the room rose slightly.

“Come on Sherlock,” Molly prompted, smiling at him warmly. “Maybe it’s something I can help fix. Or maybe you’d feel better if you told me?”

“I doubt it,” he muttered. Laying there for another long moment he sighed. “You’re not going to go away, are you?”

“Not at all, I made a promise that I wouldn’t leave after all. Guide’s honour.”

Sherlock paused then rolled over to face her, a look of disgust on his face. “Dear Lord, you were a Girl Guide weren’t you? I should have deduced it sooner. Your unwavering helpfulness and optimism is frankly nauseating.”

Rolling her eyes, Molly sighed. “I made it all the way to a Ranger,” she said, tone becoming more annoyed as Sherlock continued to scowl at her. “Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are you going to go to your room to sulk in private? I for one have had a long day and I need to be well rested for an important autopsy tomorrow.”

“Is it a murder?” Sherlock asked, a look of interest entering his face as the temperature rose again.

“No. A little girl died after having open valve replacement and I’m trying to find out why.”

“Dull,” Sherlock said with a sigh. He rolled away again, scowling at the back of the sofa. “Obviously the surgery was a failure or the shock was too much for the child. I don’t know why you’re even wasting your time.”

“It’s not a waste of-“ Molly cut off her own shout with a sigh of disgust as she threw up her hands. “I don’t even know why I bother,” she muttered, getting to her feet. “Finding out what precisely went wrong with a surgery that killed a little girl is not a waste of time, Sherlock. It’s a mystery. One that needs to be unraveled so that we can learn and make things better so that procedures can be changed and fewer people die. It’s just as bloody important as any of my forensic examinations for Scotland Yard! In fact, it’s probably more important because my research saves people’s lives!”

“It didn’t save the life of the little girl you’re butchering tomorrow.”

Molly stared at him, jaw slack as her hands tightened into fists. Closing her eyes tightly she very slowly counted to ten before opening her eyes as the kettle began to scream. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t call me a butcher and blame your sulk for your rudeness,” she growled, stomping her way into the kitchen. Pulling out a mug, she made herself a cuppa.

Sherlock was hovering at her shoulder when she turned back. “You’re seeing Lestrade,” he grumbled, glaring down at her. “Every Tuesday since you returned he’s walked you home from a series of horrid pubs and stared at your breasts as he attempts to speak to you. You’re not shagging yet… Are you planning on dating him?”

“W-What?” Molly stammered as her face went scarlet. “He doesn’t stare at my breasts, Sherlock!”

“He does,” he said. “While your breasts and mouth are rather on the small side of attractiveness, Lestrade is obviously not bothered by this considering his continued perusal of you.”

He thought her breasts and mouth was too small? Her flush no longer entirely due to embarrassment, Molly sidestepped Sherlock and stalked back towards her bedroom. “He’s not perusing me, Sherlock,” she muttered. “Greg is just being a friend and walking me home at night since Carl doesn’t.”

“Why won’t your brother walk you home?”

“Because he’s trying to pick up girls!” Molly snapped, slamming her bedroom door shut in his face.

“And you never considered that he may be allowing Lestrade to do the same to you?” Sherlock asked, from his sudden perch on the bed.

“Greg is a friend,” Molly sighed. Setting down her mug a bit too hard on her end table, she crossed her arms over her evidently too small breasts and glared down at him. “He’s a good friend and the only one I’ve made since moving here if we’re being honest.”

Sherlock twitched, staring up at her. “I feel that I should inform you that, in the event Lestrade does ask you out – and he will – your feelings for him are not ones of attraction.”

“Really?” Molly sighed, sitting down next to the ghost. “So now you’re suddenly able to read my mind as well? Fine then, how do you know I’m not attracted to Greg?”

“Your knickers.”

She blinked at him and felt her cheeks start to color. “My what?”

“Your knickers,” Sherlock repeated. When she said nothing he rolled his eyes and gave her a look that seemed to say that she was being exceptionally thick. “The vast majority of the knickers homed in your drawers are of a plain cotton variety with no lace or other adornments. Furthermore, many of the pairs are old and showing signs of wear with slight tearing and giving out in the elastic bands. From this we can deduce that you are not in the habit of allowing strange people to see your knickers on a regular basis. Of your good ‘date pairs,’” Sherlock bounced his fingers in air quotes around the word as he rolled his eyes again, “of which you have three, all three sets of knickers and corresponding brassieres are in their usual spot in the back of your drawer. Thus, you were not planning for a scenario where Lestrade might see you in your knickers.

“And yet, you often wear your good knickers when planning to seduce other men!” Sherlock continued, filling his voice with false mirth. “For example, when you had a ‘crush’ on that Indian doctor from radiology - that you refused to speak to me about in fear I would ‘ruin’ it - you wore your date knickers every day, washing them regularly, in the event he noticed your fawning and asked you out for coffee. Presumably, you were concerned that the urge to mate would hit you both so strongly as you sipped your caffeine that he’d take you on the barista’s counter meriting the wearing of those knickers. You of course immediately stopped wearing them upon finding out that he is married and dating two other women on the side, reverting back to your normal pairs.

“As you go out with Lestrade for drinks every Tuesday, if you were planning on getting into a situation where seduction was a possibility, you would be wearing a pair of your good knickers now. This, combined with the fact that Lestrade doused himself in his ‘good’ aftershave – which should also warn you off him as a man who considers Axe aftershave in good taste has none – leads to the conclusion that while he would like to pursue a relationship with you, you have no interest in him.”

Sherlock paused for a moment before looking at her expectantly. “Well? I’m correct, am I not?”

Molly glared at him, face scarlet, and resisted the urge to slap him across the face. “You went through my knickers drawer?” 

“Please, Molly. Is that really all that you’ve taken from this?”

“Don’t go into my drawers again,” Molly said firmly, throwing back the blankets and accidentally dislodging Toby. He meowed in protest before padding into her ajar wardrobe, snuggling into a blouse that had fallen off its hanger.

“Molly,” Sherlock sighed heavily.

“I mean it, Sherlock! Get into my things again and I’ll – I’ll get you exorcised!” she snapped as she practically ripped her contacts out of her eyes and dropped them into the trash by her bedside. Flipping off the lights she flopped back down onto her bed and pulled the covers tightly around her. Sherlock’s skin seemed to glow in the darkness and she rolled over in a huff, putting her back to him and closing her eyes tightly so she could pretend he wasn’t there. Tears prickled in her eyes though she didn’t know why she was crying. Sherlock saying and doing horrible things wasn’t exactly a new occurrence and it wasn’t exactly upsetting to know that a handsome older man fancied you.

“Molly-“

“I told you before, Sherlock. I have an autopsy to do tomorrow and while it may mean nothing to you, it means a lot to me. That little girl’s family deserves to know what happened and I’m going to find it out for them. Also, if you remember, part of our deal was that you’d stay out of my bedroom.”

She could hear him sigh from the other side of the bed and the mattress moved as he got to his feet. “You should drink your tea then before it gets cold. While you only imbibed one pint, it shall still dehydrate you and you shall want to be at your best tomorrow. I would also recommend that you set your alarm as I shall not be able to enter your room to wake you.”

The room warmed again as he vanished from it. Dashing the unshed tears from her eyes, Molly slowly sat up and stared over at where Sherlock had been sitting before leaning over and switching her alarm on. Picking up the mug, she drained down the rapidly cooling contents before flopping back down onto her bed and throwing an arm over her eyes.

*****

When she came into the lab the next morning, a half hour early and a large cup of coffee in her hands, she was told that Eric wouldn’t be in. The morgue assistant had apparently broken his arm and got a nasty bump on the head in a biking accident and was recovering slowly upstairs. Sighing, Molly rubbed at her temples and asked if they could call in anyone else only for the receptionist, Susan, to shake her head. Chris was out on a family emergency, Tara was pregnant and couldn’t be near the mortuary’s chemicals, and Steve had quit unexpectedly. Or at least Susan thought he must have quit. No one had heard or seen Steve for the last week and a half and if he hadn’t quit he was going to be fired soon.

“Great,” Molly muttered to herself, walking into the empty lab. 

Setting down her purse and coffee she picked up her list and wondered what to do. Her biggest issue would be moving the bodies about. She was small and while her patients couldn’t help it they were a dead weight – Don’t tell jokes, Molly, her inner Sherlock snapped – getting them out of the coolers and onto her table would be an issue. Everything else could be compensated for. Usually she had her assistants sterilize her equipment, do the clean up, and label and send off her samples, but she could do that herself today. Checking the charts she noted that Doctor Matthews would be in at noon and while he would be undoubtedly upset that they were assistant-less today he could at least help her move the heavier bodies.

Glad that she’d decided to come in early, Molly quickly downed her coffee and headed off to the locker room. Quickly changing into scrubs, she pinned her hair up and headed back to the morgue. Sterility was going to be an issue, she thought to herself as she loaded her equipment for the morning into the autoclave. It was the assistant’s job to help her get her apron and gloves on to preserve the sterile environment, but she supposed it wouldn’t hurt this time. With her moving slower, she’d likely only get Miss. Pricilla’s autopsy done in the morning and introducing any new bacteria to the poor girl wouldn’t hurt her any. Donning gloves and a mask she loaded her tray and set the lights, before opening up the cooler.

Pulling back the sterile sheet the girl had been wrapped in Molly nodded to herself, pleased to see that someone – Chris, if she could read the scrawled initials right – had taken the time to check the child in properly. Miss. Pricilla had already had her height, weight, and details about the external appearance of her surgery scars recorded as well as had her photograph taken both in her gown and after it had been bagged. Mentally thanking Chris and sending up a prayer that his family emergency wasn’t too bad, Molly gently placed Miss. Pricilla onto the trolley and rolled her over to her examination table.

Transferring her, she removed the sterile sheet and bagged it as well. Molly smiled down at the little girl before gently placing the body block under her back to make the next bit a little easier. “I’m sorry about this,” she muttered to the child. “You were far too young for this to happen, but I’m going to find out what went wrong and, if it was a mistake, make sure it never happens again, okay?”

“She was supposed to go with me.”

Molly jumped, whirling about with her scalpel in hand at the voice that spoken. The room was empty behind her. Heart pounding, she turned slowly, surveying the room carefully before settling back on the body on her table.

“Okay,” she whispered. “That was weird.” Shaking her head to get her out of whatever spooky horror movie vibe she had put herself in, Molly flipped on the voice recorder. “This is the recording of the autopsy of Pricilla Williams, aged 8, female, Caucasian, weight at 54.2 lbs, and height of 4 foot 3 inches. Case number-“ Molly shuffled through the paperwork finding and reading the number off slowly and carefully before picking her scalpel back up. “External examination complete, blood drawn and submitted to lab with results pending, see attached forms. I’m beginning with a Y-incision-“

“I wasn’t supposed to go alone.”

Molly shrieked, dropping the scalpel as she turned, her tray of instruments going flying. The voice had been right in her ear that time, hot breath brushing her skin as the man had spoken. Looking around wildly for the intruder, Molly found that she was still alone. Snapping off her gloves she rushed out of the room and hurried down the hall to Susan who was still at the main desk.

“Have you let anyone past and into the morgue?” she demanded, running up to her. At Susan’s wide eyed shake of the head she frowned. “No one at all? Not another doctor or a janitor or anyone?”

“Not a soul. Why? Is something wrong?”

“N-No, I-“ Molly shook her head. “I just thought I heard someone talking. Must have come down through the vents or something.”

Smiling with reassurance that she didn’t feel, she walked back to the morgue. Opening the door to the examination room slowly she peered inside looking for possible hiding spots and finding none. Miss. Pricilla was just as she’d left her, back bent over the body block and ready for the first cut with her tools scattered over the floor where she’d dropped them. Sighing, she gathered them up carefully, hesitating as she found her still running voice recorder.

Placing her tools back into the autoclave for sterilizing, Molly perched herself on a counter and rewound the tape.

“This is the recording of the autopsy of Pricilla Williams,” her canned voice recited back to her. Molly listened intently as she heard herself list off the girl’s height and weight. In the background there was no noise, no ignored footsteps approaching as she ruffled through the papers to read off the case number. “I’m beginning with a Y-incision-“

She heard herself shriek and the crash of the tray hitting the floor. No other voice. Frowning, Molly rewound the tape and played it again and again, listening for the voice that never reappeared.

Sighing as she listened to the tray hit the ground a final time, she set the recorder down and rubbed at her temples. “I need more sleep,” she muttered as her panicked footsteps replayed themselves. Picking the recorder back up she moved to shut it off when she heard it. A giggle.

She rewound the tape again. There she was, her voice calm and collected as she started the autopsy. She heard herself shriek, the tray fall. Those were her footsteps hurrying out of the room and that was the door slamming and then-

A laugh. 

It was a man’s high pitched giggle.

Goosepimples erupted over her skin as she rewound the tape and played it again as her eyes darted about the room. How? When she turned there had been nobody there! There was no place to hide! 

The autoclave’s timer went off and she lowered herself from the counter. Biting her bottom lip as she unloaded her instruments, she carefully carried them back over to Miss. Pricilla. Taking the tape out of the recorder and replacing it with a new one, she angled herself so that she was facing the door before turning it back on and starting again.

What on earth was going on?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Threats of rape and violence towards women. Could be triggering so please read with caution.

"Mind the gap."

She'd only just made it. One of the last trains of the night and she was on it, headed home. Molly's hands trembled, her entire form threatening to shake as she fell into a seat and tried to control her breathing. She was late coming home. So late. Sherlock was going to be furious. She hadn't managed to make it to any of the shops either. Hadn't managed to pick up the milk, the cat food, or any of the other items on her list and-

Burying her face in her hands, Molly let out a muffled sob. Ignoring the looks from the few other patrons she let her shoulders shake and the tears flow as the Tube carried her away to safety.

*****

Earlier that day….

Walking through the halls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, face grim, Molly held the autopsy results tight to her chest as she weaved between the patients, students, and staff that filled the building. She'd finished the autopsy. Like a mad woman possessed she had done all of the tests herself, taking over the lab to process the tissue and blood samples then doing them a second time to ensure that the results were correct. She'd wasted the entire day. There were reasons why she was supposed to do autopsies and technicians the tests but she'd discarded the whys as she pushed the lab equipment harder. To get that one last test completed. To get that final sample analyzed.

Analyzing the results, feeling the dread spread as she realized the implications, she'd retreated to her office to type up the report. Now done, her signature affixed to it, she marched up to Mike Stamford's office, knocked, and let herself in before he could call out for her to do so.

Face grim, she sat the folder before him. "Mike, it's bad. Miss Pricilla was-"

"Murdered," Mike finished for her. The most shocking thing was that he didn't look shocked at all, Molly thought as she flopped boneslessly into the seat across from him. Rubbing his temples, the older man looked at her, his face weary. "How?"

"Cardiac arrest due to hypoglycemia," Molly said. Her voice seemed to echo strangely in Mike's cold office and she shivered, pulling her jumper around her tighter. "Tests indicate that she was injected with at least a hundred units of rapid-acting insulin, likely Lispro, via her IV. This caused the shortness of breath and rapid heart beat that alerted the nurses to her condition. They thought it was a clot and injected blood thinners which-"

"Did nothing," Mike interrupted with a sigh. Opening the folder he scanned her carefully typed report, eyes lingering on the word 'homicide.' "I don't suppose the girl or her relatives had diabetes?"

"Miss. Pricilla most assuredly did not have Type I diabetes and I don't know about the family," she replied. "There was no reason to give her insulin, Mike. She was murdered." Waiting for him to react, she frowned when he didn't bring it up first. "Mike, we need to inform the police."

"They won't be any help."

"How can you say that? It's procedure and besides-"

Opening up a desk drawer, Mike reached inside and pulled out a thick stack of files. Setting them down on his desk with a loud thump, he stared at them morosely as Molly shivered. She swallowed hard, counting them silently. "How many?"

"Thirty-seven," he answered. "Well, I suppose it's thirty-eight now. The police haven't been much help, none at all actually. They've been keeping it mum in an attempt to catch the killer but-" He shrugged. "Thirty-eight deaths and I don't think we're any closer. God, I wish Sherlock was still here."

"Sherlock." Her mind raced to the specter in her flat, his pale face moaning at her as he complained how bored he was. How her laptop wasn't fast enough to get him the data he needed. That she was being unreasonable refusing to bring him parts home from Barts.

"Yeah. The one who's flat you live in. He was a detective, a brilliant one." Eyes glued to his desk, Molly thought that Mike's lips actually trembled as he stared at the stack of files. "The deaths started not long after he killed himself. If Sherlock were here he would have figured who the killer was after the first one."

Gazing going to Mike's cluttered desk she spent far too much time studying the battered 'World's Best Dad' mug on his desk and thinking. It wouldn't be too hard to make a copy of the file. To bring it home. To bring the tape she hadn't the heart to play for anyone else for fear the giggle trapped within was just a figment of her imagination. Another symptom of her going mad. She thought of the ghost of a consulting detective lived in her flat. After all, if that wasn't a sign of madness she didn't know what was.

"We still need to contact the police," she said, getting back to the task on hand. "Suppressing suspicious deaths is a crime and if there's been more…"

"The police have already been informed of the previous deaths and are well aware of our problem. Of our," Mike's mouth twitched uncomfortably, "Angel of Death."

Her eyes widened. "They have? Then why haven't I heard anything about this before? I would have thought that something like this would have been on the telly. People have to be warned."

"And tell them what? That one of the oldest hospitals in England has a murderer on the loose and all of the police's efforts to catch him, her, or them has been for naught? The public would stop coming, Molly. Our doors would be barred. We'd be forced to start turning away all the people we help."

"But people are dying! Pricilla Williams wouldn't have died if she hadn't been injected with that insulin."

"I know, but my hands are tied," Mike said with a sigh. "There's nothing we can do. We've installed more cameras and had a few undercover officers join the staff but there's been nothing Molly. It's like whoever's doing this is a ghost."

She froze at the word, a chill running up her spine. Mouth suddenly dry she jumped to her feet and made her excuses, hurrying from Mike's office.

A ghost.

The giggle on the tape replayed in her mind, the laugh becoming darker and more sinister every time she thought about it. Molly didn't know what was happening or why she was suddenly seeing and hearing things that couldn't possibly be there, but knew it was true. Someone had been in the morgue there with her. It was impossible but she knew her hunch was right. If Sherlock was real – and he had to be real! Fate wouldn't be so cruel as to make her hallucinate her sulky and demanding roommate – then the voice she had heard on the tape was real. And the voice on the tape was murdering people. Murdering children.

Thirty-eight deaths. She could barely wrap her head around it. There was a ghost at Barts and it had murdered thirty-eight people. Thirty-eight souls had come through their doors expecting aid and tender care and instead had their lives taken from them. No, thinking about it more didn't force things to make sense. If she'd been in charge and someone told her an Angel of Death was haunting their halls she would have shouted it from the rooftops, told people to stay away, hired the bloody Ghostbusters.

Reaching her office she froze, hand on her doorknob.

If the murderer was a ghost – and she was convinced it was – how was she supposed to get rid of it? She'd had no luck at getting rid of Sherlock and he only frightened her sometimes and had no sense of personal boundaries. (He'd gone through her knicker drawer. Enough said.) How was she supposed to get rid of a murderous ghost? What if it didn't want to leave? What then?

Shaking her head, she entered her office. "Sherlock will know," she muttered, hurrying over to her computer. Her office was nearly so cold she could see her breath and she mentally grumbled at the building's shoddy air cooling system as she printed off a second copy of her autopsy report. Really, she knew the morgue had to be chilled to help preserve the bodies, but this was a bit extreme! Especially with the caff so warm these days.

Sherlock was always complaining about being bored so he'd probably be delighted when she brought home the case of Miss. Pricilla for him. And if anyone could sort through the internet to find a way to exorcise ghosts that actually worked it would be Sherlock. She'd even bite the bullet and pay for the faster internet so he could surf the web to his non-beating heart's content.

Grabbing the print out from the tray, Molly moved through the morgue. Hurrying through her end of the day rituals – turning off the lights, making sure all the body storage units were locked and the keys properly put away, loading and turning on the autoclave – she switched off the lights behind her and turned towards the door.

There was a flash of blue out of the corner of her eye. Stopping, Molly glanced down the hall to see the barest hint of a man in scrubs vanish around the corner. She frowned. This far down it was only the morgue and the mechanical rooms but, she glanced at her watch, this late there shouldn't be anyone else about.

It didn't matter though. She had to get this report to Sherlock and-

Another flash of blue and this time Molly caught a glimpse of a face before it vanished around the same corner. "Steve?" she muttered, blinking in confusion. What was one of her morgue assistants doing here so late at night? Especially since no one had seen him in a week and he was dangerously close to being sacked. "Steve!" she called out again.

There wasn't an answer.

Casting a glance back towards the lift, Molly sighed and shoved the autopsy report into her oversized bag. Sherlock had mocked it, musing over what purpose a handbag the size of a small piece of luggage could have, but now at least she could prove to him it was useful for sneaking home privileged information. She sighed, hurrying down the hall towards where Steve had vanished. After this case he was sure to start bothering her about bringing home parts again.

Turning the corner just in time to see Steve vanish through a door, Molly called out his name again. Mentally cursing when he didn't respond, she jogged after him, throwing open the door he'd just vanished through. "Steve, wait up! Are you alright? No one's seen you for a…"

It was one of the mechanical rooms and Steve was nowhere in sight. Trailing off, Molly eyed the dark and damp room wearily debating whether or not it was worth trying to find her wayward assistant. "Steve?" she called out to the dim and crowded room. She tried to peer through the heavily laden rows of shelves and piles of equipment and supplies to see where he had gone. "Steve are you in here?"

No reply.

Lips tightening, Molly glanced at her watch. It was getting late. At the rate she was going she'd never make it to the shops and manage to catch her train unless she hurried and she really didn't want to take a cab. Too expensive and she was just about ready to arrange to have the painters finally come in. She really didn't have any extra money to waste on cabs when she was paying for an Oyster card.

Turning, she jumped and shrieked as she realized that she wasn't alone.

Gasping, she clutched at her chest and glared at the short dark haired man. "You scared me half to death!" she shouted.

He stared back at her impassively, his dark eyes dull and glassy as he gazed at her with the oddest half smile on his face. "Sorry," he said, his voice deep and monotonous. "Didn't mean it."

"Yes, well, what are you doing down here anyway? The morgue's closed for the evening," she said, hoisting her bag higher up on her shoulder. There was something about the man that was oddly familiar and yet disturbing to her. For some reason she felt that she'd seen his face before but couldn't place where. She didn't like the way he was looking at her either. As if she wasn't really there and he was looking right through her. "Are you here to see a body? I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow if you are."

For some reason that seemed to amuse the man. He smiled, eyes lighting up and actually looked at her which made her think she knew him all the more. "Nooooo," he drawled. Dublin accent. She'd had a friend in Uni that sounded just like him. "I'm not here to see a body. I'm Jim. From IT? You've probably seen me around."

Molly nodded, sudden relief flooding through her. Of course, that had to have been where she'd seen him before. She'd probably seen him dozens of times in the caff or walking the halls but never really focused on him before. Shuffling her feet, she held onto the strap of her bag and smiled at him weakly. "Oh. Nice to meet you, Jim. But what are you doing here? It's late and there's no computers down here."

"What are you doing here?" Jim threw back at her, his tone mocking. "There's no nice clean autopsies to do over here, Molly Hooper."

She froze, a shiver passing through her. It was the cold she told herself. For some reason it was freezing in the hall even colder than her office. She almost thought she could see the metal of the door handles starting to fog. "H-How do you know my name?"

"Nametag," Jim said, rolling his eyes. He did an odd little quick one, two, three step and struck a pose. "Good golly Miss. Molly, sure like to ball! Hooo!" he sang and she blushed at his bad impression of Little Richard. "Come on now! I just said I work here. It can't be all that surprising that a bloke like me learned the names of the prettiest girls in the hospital."

If anything her blush intensified. She'd never been sung and danced at in a hallway before and she felt some of the tension leave her. "I thought I saw Steve, one of my co-workers, go down here and was trying to follow him. No one's seen him for a bit and I was starting to worry."

Jim's smile widened and she was struck by how white and sharp his teeth looked in the florescent light as he did the quick one-two-three dance step again. "Steve? Oh! I know Steve. I love that man. You saw him? Just now?"

"Uh, yes. I thought I saw him come in here."

"Oh he's in there all right," Jim said. Beaming at her he walked past her and shoved open the mechanical room door. "Come along, Miss. Molly. I can show you right to your wayward Stevie."

She hesitated. For the first time she realized she was alone in a hallway with a man she'd never met before. It getting to be late too. She doubted anyone would be by. "Maybe you could just have him call me instead? It's late and I have someone expecting me."

"Who? Your boyfriend?" For some reason Jim's voice dropped to a rumble and she looked at him only to find him looking back at her with a cheerful smile on his face. "It'll only take half a tick. We pop in, you see Stevie and get all your questions answered and then you can go back to Baker Street and your lovely flatmate. Sound good?"

"Well, I-"

"Stevie! I brought a guest!" Jim shouted stepping into the mechanical room. The door swung shut behind him. Molly hesitated only a moment before following him.

The room seemed darker than it had when Molly had first opened the door. Glancing up, she saw that some of the lightbulbs had burnt out and she frowned, wondering how that had happened so quickly. Jim was deeper into the room, his loud footsteps echoing amongst the cement and metal and she hurried after him, squinting in the dim light. The room had to be larger than she'd originally expected, twisting through the rows of shelves to follow Jim's dark form. Abruptly his footsteps ceased and she cursed, hurrying along the shelves to catch back up.

She found him standing in front of the waste incinerator. The grate was open and there Jim stood, backlit by flames, his back to her as he gazed at a large tarp covered object on the ground. Her heart began to pound. Swallowing hard, grip on her bag tightening, she took a half step back. "I-Is he not here?"

"Oh he's here," Jim said and his voice was back to being slow and dull. Ever so slowly he turned back to face her, eyes glittering in the dim fiery light. "Stevie's been here awhile. He's been keeping me company."

Instantly her eyes went down to the tarp. Her mouth went dry. There, near Jim's feet where it looked like there was a ball under the tarp. That was a head. And there, just below it, shoulders. A narrow waist, tapering to feet. Molly didn't need a mirror to realize she'd gone white, Jim's smile was answer enough. Throwing back his head he laughed loudly and she gagged, staring in horrified fascination. Right there, inside his mouth, she could see the flickering of the flames behind him. Jim didn't have the back of his head anymore. He'd blown it off.

Of course she'd seen him before. He was in all of the papers she'd researched when trying to find out more about Sherlock's death. Stupid, stupid!

"You're him! Moriarty!" she gasped, staggering back. "B-But you're supposed to be… to be…"

"Dead? God you're thick," Jim growled, stalking towards her. There was a glint of silver in his hands and Molly realized that he was holding a knife. Where had he gotten a knife? "I thought you'd be smarter, but maybe that's not why he keeps you around. Oh, who am I kidding? You can see us. That's reason to keep you enough."

She cringed back, edging along the shelves towards what she hoped was the exit. "H-Him who?"

"SHERLOCK!" Moriarty bellowed. Without being touched one of the shelves toppled to the floor, it's contents scattering with a crash. "He's there, isn't he? In that horrid little flat. Tell me he's there! If I'm here the game's not finished and he has to be here too!"

"I don't know what you're talking-"

Throwing out his hand, Molly shrieked as an invisible force grabbed her and slammed her up against the shelves. Struggling, screaming and thrashing, she sobbed as her ankles and wrists refused to budge, held stiffly upright by the insubstantial shadows that had detached themselves from the wall. Opening her mouth to beg, Molly whimpered as one of the shadows slid across her face, gagging it. It was like trying to bite air. There was nothing there, no pressure holding her down and yet she couldn't break away. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as Moriarty paced before her, his hands fidgeting with the knife.

"What to do, what to do?" he mused aloud reaching the end of his path and turning back again and again. "Did he send you? No, not his style. Not without a web cam and a mobile so we could chat properly. Does he even know I'm here?" He turned towards her, his gaze thoughtful. "He doesn't know, does he? That I'm here. That I'm waiting to finish the game."

Shaking her head frantically, Molly froze as Moriarty pressed closer. Grinning, he ran the flat of the knife blade against her cheek. "We're going to have to fix that then."

Spinning away from her, his eyes surveyed the room. "Now how do I send you back to him?" he asked outloud. He wiggled with excitement as his eyes darted around the room. Like a happy puppy or a worm on the hook. Giggling loudly he danced and spun, stopping occasionally to study an object on the shelves as if he were in a candy store. "I suppose I could send you back unharmed, but what's the fun in that? Oh! I could always fuck you! That could be a treat! Especially since Sherlock's probably regretting the fact he died a shriveled up old virgin."

Molly groaned low in her throat and Jim laughed, dancing nearer to her. "Like that idea? That I could screw your dry old pussy with some bit of rubbish to drive Sherlock up the wall?" He grinned at her but shook his head. "Alas, I'm sorry Miss. Molly. Too crude, too crude. Sherlock would never appreciate it."

He hummed loudly, the swing dancing turning into a waltz as he spun around the room. "Of course I don't have to send all of you back," he mused, biting his lower lip. "I could even the playing field a bit while letting him know that I'm still here and waiting. Oh!" Suddenly he was right next to her, so close she could see the light pour through the hole in the back of his head whenever he opened his mouth to speak. "I could kill you. Cut out your heart and send it to him. Then you would be mine and he would be alone. Again. Now that really does sound lovely."

Giggling and spinning, Jim took a step back and regarded her carefully. "Too bad about your lovely white lab coat. This is going to get decidedly messy. Yet, you know the best part of being dead, Molly?" He grinned at her widely, holding up his hands. "No more blood on your hands!"

Molly screamed through her gag as Jim approached closer, sobbing as he laughed and raised the knife. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't! Murdered by a ghost in the mechanical room of her workplace? She tried to break free of her iron shadow bonds as Jim began to hum again. No! It couldn't end this way. She didn't want it to end this way!

Please, she thought desperately. PLEASE!

"I. O. U," Jim giggled. He raised the knife above his head and brought it down with a laugh as Molly screamed and closed her eyes.

There was a grunt and a loud bellow of rage.

The bonds vanished and Molly fell to the floor gasping and sobbing for breath.

"Come on," a familiar voice shouted at her. Hands were tugging at her lab coat. Dozens of hands. All pulling her upright and away from Jim on the floor. Jim had been tackled and was being held down by three large men who shimmered like fog in the early morning. His face was red and he was clearly winning, but the men were doing everything they could to hold him down, their faces grave as they flickered in and out of existence.

"I said come on!" the voice shouted at her and she looked up into the pale face of Steve.

"Steve!" Molly gasped as she shakily got to her feet. She was surrounded by people. People who stared at her with grey grim faces as they slid in and out of transparency. "I thought you were under the tarp!"

"I am," Steve said, voice sad. He looked at her she could see the outline of the shelf behind him. "Now come on Molly. Run. I don't know how much longer we can hold him."

She shook her head, wavering on her feet as two more men threw themselves down on Moriarty. A woman joined them, all determined to hold the specter at bay. Molly reached up to touch her forehead. "I don't-I don't understand."

"It doesn't matter, now run!"

With Steve's shout in her ear and the ghostly hands pushing her, Molly ran for the door. She could hear Moriarty begin to scream behind her but her gaze was on the lithe form of Pricilla as the child led the way. The pale silver ghosts opened the doors for her, unfamiliar faces beckoning her down the hall as she staggered along. Steve stayed at her side the entire way, his hand on her elbow to tug her along and his face grim.

"You have to remember this Molly," he was muttering as they led her up the stairwell and back into the world. "Death isn't supposed to work like this. Something's gone wrong. It's holding Moriarty back and as long as he's here, we'll be trapped here as well. You have to find a way to get rid of him. You have to set us free. None of us will ever be able to rest until you do."

Yanking her arm away, Molly stopped at glared up at him with tear filled eyes. "Why me?" she demanded, the fear rising up within her so high she was barely able to get the words out. "I don't know about any of this! How can I help when I can't even understand what's happening? Why does it have to be me!?"

"I'm sorry," Steve said.

He did look sorry. And scared and more tired than Molly could ever imagine. She thought of him laying there, rotting, under that tarp and suddenly noticed the thousands of paper thin cuts that adorned his once perfect chestnut skin. The jagged cut at the base of his throat. He'd been murdered. They'd all been murdered. She was surrounded by the ghosts of Moriarty's fallen and – Oh God! – there were so many more than thirty-eight.

"It has to be you though. Molly, you're the only one who's ever been able to see us. We were able to come and help because we heard you calling. It can only be you."

Molly opened her mouth to ask how she had called them when the sound of a massive crash rang out from below. The walls and floor trembled and she screamed, clutching the hand rail as the door below her flew open. Moriarty glared up at her from the bottom of the stairwell, outlined in blue flame. "Get back here!" he bellowed, rage contorting his face. "I'm not done with you yet!"

"Run," Steve gasped at her. When she stood there frozen he gaze her a hard shove as Pricilla threw the door open for her. "Molly, RUN!"

As one the ghosts threw themselves at Jim. His flames burnt them, his hands tore them to shreds and still they attacked, heedless of their own safety. Dark eyes met hers and with a guttural growl, Moriarty started up the stairs. Things crawled under his skin, stretching and distorting it into grotesque shapes. Whatever he was, he wasn't human anymore, Molly realized as the horror within her mounted. He was something else and he was going to kill her.

A small hand touched hers and Pricilla looked up at her, small heart-shaped face streaked with tears. "Run," she whispered.

Molly ran.

She ran through the hospital from the flames that threatened to consume her. She ran from the shadows that tried to drag her back and bind her. She ran from the ghosts that were fighting so hard to protect her and from the thing that may have once been a man that would kill her if he ever saw her again. She ran as the floor and walls shook. Ran as the inhuman screams of rage intensified and rose to such a pitch she had to gasp and cover her ears. Ran as if her very soul depended on it.

She ran past the blank faces who looked at her terror and blinked, confused. She ran past Mike Stamford who reached for her to ask her what was wrong and was shoved aside. She ran past the people who were standing right there among it, smack dab in the flames and the ghosts, and the thing that was Jim and who saw… nothing. Heard nothing. Who saw only a terrified woman running from a fright that had no cause or reason.

Bursting through the doors, Molly felt the cool air of the outside fill her lungs and she flooded with relief. Behind her Jim was howling her name but as she dashed away she saw his steps falter, the horrible aura that surrounded him fade. Her ghosts had vanished and in the end there was only Jim, screaming as he pounded against the open air that was the division line between her world and Barts as if there was a wall between them. Gasping for breath, she stared at him for a long time as her co-workers filled in behind him their gazes questioning and worried as Moriarty glowered hate at her.

"You won't be able to stay away forever," Jim shouted and she winced at the pure rage in his voice. "You'll be back. The game has to be ended and when it does I'll be the victor! Tell Sherlock that I'll be the victor!"

With a scream so high pitched even her coworkers heard it Jim vanished. Every window on the ground floor blew out in an explosion of glass as people screamed. Gasping, Molly fell to the ground, covering her head and her eyes as the twinkling shards fell around her.

Getting back to her feet she surveyed the damage. People were bleeding. People were crying. People were looking at her as if wondering how she had known to run and if she had known the windows were going to explode. Turning, she ran again and this time she didn't stop until she was on the Tube.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly Hooper has a well deserved cry and Sherlock is comforting. Until he isn't anymore.

When she had been five, Molly's mother had died. She couldn't remember much about that day. The sound of Carl screaming on his cot. The coldness of her mother's skin under her fingertips as she begged her to get up. The knocks of the neighbors on the door, asking if everything was all right. Old Mister Peterson from across the street shattering their window when no one came to the door. A blur of emotion culminating in a feeling of overwhelming helplessness and despair that soaked into her very bones and left her reeling. 

She felt a bit like that again. Rushing from the tube she stopped in front of the door to 221 B and nearly collapsed against the door. Resting her forehead against the dark painted wood she gasped for breath and sobbed, clutching the handle. Her keys were in her bag but she made no move to fetch them out, just trembling as her mind raced.

Moriarty. In her morgue. The dead. Her near escape and race through Barts to safety. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Oh god, what was she going to tell him? What could she tell him? That the man he'd died to stop was not only back but in her hospital? That he was continuing his life of crime from beyond the grave? That people were dying and she had no idea what to do, no idea what could be done. He would have killed her and she'd been powerless and so, so scared and he would have gotten away with it if he hadn't been for the other ghosts and Sherlock-

The door unlatched itself and swung open under her grip. Sherlock stood on the other side, half-way up the stairs, violin in hand. He looked at her face grim, appearing more solid than he ever had before.

"Moriarty's the same as me, isn't he?" he said, taking in her ragged appearance with a glance. He didn't seem to be the least bit surprised though the temperature of the narrow hall dropped quickly. His lip twitched ever so slightly and then he was whirling around and marching back up the stairs. "I would offer you a cuppa, but I'm afraid I'm unsuited to tea making in my present incorporeal form. Come along then, Molly."

She gaped up at him, chest still heaving, unable to say a word. How had he-

"Come along, Molly." His voice was sharper with the hint of a command that had to be obeyed. Without another thought, Molly followed him up the stairs.

She found him in the kitchen, his brow furrowed as he attempted to coerce the kettle into the sink. Glaring at the mess, he glanced over to her and raised an eyebrow. "This is actually rather difficult. If you would..."

Nodding dumbly she brushed by him as he stepped back, taking the electric kettle and filling it with water before plugging it in. Stopping, she stared at the counter as the kettle rapidly began to heat. 

"Mug, Molly," Sherlock said from her elbow. "Your favorite one with the kittens I should think."

She swallowed and opened the cupboard, fetching the mug out. Glancing towards the door behind which the tea lay she hesitated.

"The chamomile," Sherlock prompted. "The organic variant that your brother gave you for your birthday. No sugar. Use the honey instead."

Nodding again she did as he said, dropping the tea bag into her mug and pulling out the honey. The kettle whistled loudly and she poured. Dipping the bag until the tea was dark enough, she pulled out the bag and squeezed herself a spoonful of honey, stirring the amber syrup into the dark liquid. Resting both of her hands on the counter, she bowed her head and breathed deeply.

"Two biscuits from the jar," Sherlock said, his voice soft and patient as he stood next to her. He reached out as if to touch her shoulder and stopped, dropping his hand. "The chocolate ones. Then to the sofa with you and get under your blanket. I shall try to rouse Toby from your bed so that he can 'cuddle' with you."

Wetting her lips she slowly shook her head. "No. Don't," she said, voice hoarse as she finally spoke. "You don't have to do that."

Going silent as Molly took the directed biscuits and went to the sofa he followed her and watched, eyes focused on her, as she wrapped her thickest, warmest blanket around her shoulders. Taking his usual seat, Sherlock steepled his fingers and raked his gaze over what little skin was uncovered for his viewing. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. "You are unharmed," he said. A statement, not a question.

Shivering, she pulled the blanket around her tighter. She could remember the feel of being bound to the cold metal shelves of the boiler room. How the tendrils of air strangled her and held her in place without being there at all. Struggling against nothing but unable to get free. Her hand came up to touch her neck. "I...I would have thought there would be bruises," she muttered lowly.

Leaning forward in his chair, Sherlock's frown only deepened as she turned her gaze to her tea and kept it there. It was easier to look at her mug instead of the man who sat so near to her. The translucent man who could vanish on a whim and who had been dead and buried for some time. Like the other dead man she had met. The dead man who had tried to kill her. Her breath caught in her throat and the tea fell from her hand, the mug shattering on the floor. Clutching her chest she toppled over on the sofa trying to sob hysterically and have a panic attack at the same time.

When she came to, Sherlock was kneeling before her. Something like concern was dancing in his eyes as his cold hands buried themselves in her blanket to clutch her own hands. "Breathe, Molly. Breathe," he said over and over again, eyes boring into her.

Gradually she calmed, sitting back up with Sherlock at her side. Sitting next to her, he clung to her hand tightly through the thick blanket, his thumb stroking her hand. Together they stared into the dark fireplace as the light outside began to fade and twilight seeped through the cracks.

"You're going to have to tell me everything," he whispered, finally breaking the silence.

"I know."

"Every detail. There could be a hint, a clue as to why we're both like this and how to stop him."

"Yes. I know, Sherlock."

His grip on her hand tightened and he seemed to press closer to her, pressing himself to her side. "If it makes you more comfortable, it can wait until tomorrow."

Surprised, she looked at him. While she didn't know Sherlock as well as she would have liked, Molly had learned her ghost was many things. Patient was not one of them. The fact that he'd taken over her laptop as she 'didn't read the news fast enough' was proof enough of that. Not that it made any sense for him to take over her laptop simply to read the news all day every day. Though doing it seemed to make him less board.

Her disbelieving look must have read on her face as he scowled at her, moving away. "I can wait," he said, tone petulant. "I've been dead thus far, an additional night is not going to make me more so."

The idea of a night to forget it all sounded nice but she found herself shaking her head, hands burying in the blanket. "No, I want to talk about it now."

He raised an eyebrow at her, looking dubious. "Are you certain? You could use the time to organize your thoughts."

"No, if I don't do it now I won't ever do it. It's like ripping off a plaster: It hurts at first but then it's over."

Sherlock nodded and leaned back on the sofa, watching her carefully as she began to speak. She told him everything. The results of Miss. Pricilla's autopsy. Talking to Mike. Seeing the figure down the hall and following, thinking it was her missing co-worker.

At some point she began to pace, wringing her hands and walking rapidly around the coffee table. Sherlock stopped her then, redirecting her down the hall to her bedroom for fear she'd step on the remains of her broken mug and be cut. She climbed into bed, burying herself under the covers as she talked about Moriarty. The furnace's light shining through the hole in his head when he laughed. Being bound against the shelves. Knowing she was going to die.

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock wrapped an arm around her as she began to cry. Burying her face against his chest she found herself so thankful that he was there for her, though she wished he could have been warm. Breathing. She didn't want any more dead things right now.

When she was finished she slept. Or she must have dozed off mid-cry because when she next opened her eyes her room was dark and the duvet had been neatly tucked around her body. There was something cold and hard pressing itself firmly against her back and for a moment she panicked, opening her mouth to scream, but a glance over her shoulder revealed a mop of curly black hair perched on the pillow next to her own. Toby was in her arms, drooling on her breasts as he absently kneaded her stomach and she pulled her still dirty scrubs tighter. Scratching her cat underneath his skin she smiled as he purred and pressed her back against Sherlock's.

She could feel him shiver against her. Her breath hitched and she was still. They laid there in silence for a long time, Toby's purr and the hum of London the only sounds that touched them in the little room. Slowly, as if he were afraid that she would pull away, a cold hand rested against hers with only a thin sheet separating her flesh from Sherlock's... Well, she didn't know what Sherlock was made out of. Tests had proved inconclusive and she'd refused to bring a microscope home from work to study him under. Now she wished she had. She wished a lot of things really.

Brushing her lips against Toby's head, smiling as her cat rubbed his chin against hers and purred louder, she turned her hand so their fingers touched through the thin Egyptian cotton. It sent a chill through her, but she ignored it. Pressing their fingertips together as their backs were pressed together she lay still beside him and smiled.

"You're never going to be able to go back."

The smile dropped from her face and she nodded slowly. Fighting back tears she focused on Toby's happy face and pressed a kiss to his furred head. "I know. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself." Sherlock didn't say anything. The silence that had been so comfortable a moment ago turned cold and unforgiving as she searched for things to say. "I-I have some savings lined up that I could use I suppose. Not enough, but I should be able to get by for a month or two. I-I-I could also list for a flatmate if you wouldn't mind toning down the h-haunting and let me clear out the upstairs room."

Sherlock rolled over to face her, his brow wrinkled. Eyes raking her for a moment he raised an eyebrow at her. "What on earth are you going on about now?"

"T-The flat. Money." Dear Lord how she hated stuttering. She'd thought the speech therapy lessons had gotten rid of the nervous stutter she'd had since childhood. Apparently being nearly murdered by a ghost and having Sherlock Holmes in her bed was enough to undo over twenty years of therapy. 

Scoffing, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Tedious. Dull."

"N-Not all of us can live rent free, Sherlock."

He was silent for a moment, his gaze going vacant as he tapped his fingers against her duvet. "You're concerned about your ability to pay rent considering Moriarty has effectively eliminated your ability to work at Barts. Can't you just get a job in another morgue?"

"There's not a huge call for pathologists at most hospitals," Molly said, her voice soft. "No one's going to hire me for a surgery position since I've been working with only dead people for so long and I haven't managed to publish since I arrived in London. I mean, I haven't even managed to finish my research. I might not be able to find a job at all."

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock stiffened and his eyes went flinty and cold. "If you are unable to find another suitable job?"

"I'll take anything, maybe I could go back to working at a shop, but I have to pay the rent somehow, Sherlock. I'll cancel the internet, telly, and my phone in the morning - that should free up some money - but I don't have all that much saved up at the moment and London's so expensive."

He stared at her, face unreadable in the dim light. Lips pursed tightly, he suddenly leapt off the bed and strode to the corner where she kept her clothes hamper. A flick of his wrist and it went flying, her knickers and dirty blouses spraying across the room. Fleeing, Toby screeched from the room as Molly sat up with a shout. "What are you doing!?"

Sherlock turned towards her and pointed down to the floor. "Remove that board."

"What?"

"Don't be dense, Molly. You heard me. That board, remove it."

Wondering if he'd gone mental, Molly stood and hurried over to him before he could do more damage. "I don't know what you're talking about. What board?"

"That one. Just pull it up, it's quite loose."

To her surprise there was a loose floorboard. Pulling it up with a minimum of fuss she gazed suspiciously at the cobweb encrusted hole as Sherlock rolled his eyes. Reaching in slowly, avoiding what spider webs as she could, Molly felt around until she found a brown package and pulled it out of the hole. "What is this?" she asked, nose wrinkling as she blinked down at the dusty brown paper wrapped box. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. Not waiting for an answer she began to tug on the twine, wondering what was inside.

"Contained within is seven thousand pounds in non-sequential notes and approximately twenty ounces of high grade cocaine," Sherlock said, voice brisk.

Molly dropped the package, her jaw falling with it. "S-seven th-th-thousand!? And WHAT!?"

"Cocaine. The raw materials I used in my seven percent solution." As she continued to gape at him, eyes wide, he scoffed and rolled his eyes again. "Come now Molly. You've read all those rubbish news articles. Surely they all listed my past drug use amongst the rest of my crimes."

"Yes, but I thought they were lying," Moly said. She looked down at the package with more weary eyes. "You said you used a seven percent solution? You injected it then?"

Arms held stiffly behind his back, Sherlock nodded. His eyes bored into her, as if daring her to challenge him. "Indeed."

"And you used a clean needle every time?"

He rolled his eyes. "What does it matter? My past as an addict is no longer of any merit as I am currently - as I'm sure you've noticed - dead. As I didn't die of an overdose I could have been in the habit of injecting it into my eyeballs for all that it matters now."

"Of course it matters!" she protested, glaring up at him. "It- You-!" At his raised eyebrow and disbelieving look she sighed. "Fine! It doesn't matter to anyone in the whole wide world except for me since I'm apparently the only one who's a big enough idiot to care about you." Not noticing the way his eyes went wide for a moment as he winced, she glared down at the package. "Why did you have me pull this out? Are you trying to tell me that I should take up a cocaine habit?"

"No," Sherlock growled, his voice deep. Lips tight and eyes narrow, the room plummeted to freezing temperatures, ignoring how it made her shiver. "I want you to take the money. I have similar packages hidden around the city that I can direct you to. Overall, it totals to just under fifty thousand pounds cash. That plus the street value of the drugs should be able to tide you over until you're able to find a new job."

Her eyes went to him, mouth open as she gaped. It was not a particularly attractive look. "I don't understand," she finally said, looking back down at the package. "You're giving me money?"

"I just said I was," Sherlock said, sounding peevish as he moved away. "You need to listen when I'm speaking, Molly."

"But... Why?"

He shrugged, the gesture lost as her eyes were still on the brown paper covered bundle. "Flatmates I can tolerate are exceedingly hard to find. Additionally, you need the money while I do not. It's a simple solution to a pressing problem, one that's far more suitable then you getting someone to flatshare."

Picking up the package, she held it tightly as she turned it over in her hands. "Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money, Sherlock."

"No? Really?" he said, sarcasm dripping in. Taking in Molly's still shell shocked posture he sighed and flopped back onto the bed, the move not even ruffling the duvet. "I just said that I don't need it. If you don't use it then it shall just sit about gathering dust for all eternity."

"But shouldn't it go to someone else? Your brother? Maybe a charity?"

"I detest my brother and he has more than enough money already. The only benefit to my dying is that he was forced to pay for my funeral as I left the contents of my accounts to Mrs. Hudson. The same goes for charities. I was not particularly philanthropic in my life and I see no reason to start after my death. Take the money, Molly." Rolling over on the bed, he buried his face against her pillow and said the next words so softly she barely picked up on them. "I'd rather like to keep you around as long as I can."

Rising from the floor, she carefully set the package down on her dresser before climbing back into the bed. Sherlock shifted as she did, allowing her room and shying away when she got too close to touching him without the barrier of the blankets between them. Regarding him closely, she bit her lip and reached out to touch the duvet next to him. Without looking at her, his hand moved to rest next to hers leaving a thin space of air between them. "Do you think that we would have been friends if he had met when you were still alive?"

He said nothing, the blankets rustling slightly as he turned to look at her from out of the corner of his glacial blue eye. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. I want to know if we would have been friends or if this is some sort of paranormal Stockholm syndrome."

The room's temperature dropped in Sherlock's displeasure, his hand pulling away from hers. "Don't be ridiculous, Molly. I'm not some foolish hostage. If anything, you're the one here trapped with me."

She blinked and in that moment Sherlock's Belstaff appeared upon him, covering up the suit he'd been wearing a moment before. Now he was dressed in his full coat and scarf, sans blood and gore thank goodness. She didn't know what it meant that her ghost was appearing in his most self-protective garb. Likely he was worried about Moriarty and concerned about the direction her questions were taking. Too bad. She wanted to know.

"So we would have been friends if we had met at Barts?"

Sighing and hunching his shoulders, Sherlock curled into himself and put his back to her. Going more transparent, the room's temperature continued to drop. "No. We would not have been friends if we had met at Barts during my life."

A frown crossed her lips. "Why not?"

"During my life I didn't have friends."

"What? But Greg says you were friends! And that fellow who ran your blog. John Wat-"

"John did not run my blog. He ran his own blog that happened to mainly detail write ups of cases I undertook to alleviate boredom faced when between experiments. He was my blogger, not my friend."

He was barely a shadow in her bed now, barely visible with only the depression in her duvet the only indication that he was there. Not wanting this conversation to end, not wanting Sherlock to leave when he was feeling cross, Molly took drastic action. Tossing aside the duvet she was glad when it landed upon him instead of falling through him. She heard him sigh, then gasp, his body going ramrod straight as she put an arm around him and pulled him close.

"Molly-"

"Shhh," she whispered, squeezing him. Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against his back and quietly hoped that he would continue to speak to her after today. "It's alright to miss them. To miss the life you had."

"I don't-" Sherlock started. He stopped though, the silence washing over them as they laid together. Tentatively, his hand came down to rest on the arm that held him to her. "It wasn't supposed to have ended like that."

"I know," she said, biting her bottom lip. She'd often wondered what had made Sherlock jump. Had it been despair over the lack of faith the world had in him? The end of struggle with depression and suicidal thoughts? She knew so little about his life. "I'm sorry it did."

His shoulders shook a little and her grip on him tightened. "John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson... I died for them."

Silence reigned. Not knowing what to say - was there anything to say to someone who regretted their death? - she simply held him as his shoulders continued to shake. It was a strange and intimate thing, holding Sherlock. Eyes sliding closed, she rested her head against his back and knew that things were never going to be the same. She didn't know if it was going to be a good thing or a bad thing. If she'd come to regret this night as the ruin of their relationship or if it would finally enable her to enter her specter's life.

"Do you really think we would have been friends?" Sherlock's voice was soft, barely a sigh as he finally calmed. His hand tightened upon her arm, holding her in place around him.

Molly smiled despite the tears pricking the corner of her eyes. How could such a brilliant man be so stupid? "Yes, we would have."

"I say the most awful things though. Always, always. People despise me because of it."

"Sherlock, I know quite well how terrible you can be but I haven't left yet have I?"

He shook his head. "No, you haven't." 

"Besides, you're not all bad," she said, forcing her voice to go bright. "You've just promised to give me an awful lot of money and I know you're worried about what happened in Barts. In your own funny way, I expect you care, Sherlock Holmes."

He snorted loudly. "I can assure you that I don't." They laid in silence for a moment. Slowly he rolled over, dislodging her arm. Blue eyes peered into her brown ones as he gazed at her, his expression unreadable. "It's lonely being dead. I don't like it. At all."

"I know what you mean," she whispered back. Biting her bottom lip she wondered what Sherlock thought of her, his strange flat-mate that could see him when no one else could. He'd scoffed when she'd suggested he was falling prey to her Stockholm Syndrome, but she still worried. If she had known him when he was alive, would he honestly have liked her? Or was this a friendship of circumstance, Sherlock unable to leave and her unwilling to leave a hurting man alone? She didn't know. She didn't think that she would want to know the answer.

Another long moment passed, their gazes locked. Yet Sherlock was the first to look away, his bright blue eyes leaving her face as he rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. "You should go to sleep," he muttered, hands clasping on his stomach. "The packages are scattered all over London. It's going to take you some time to collect them all tomorrow."

She nodded, rolling back over to curl up and onto her side. Despite everything that had happened, sleep came for her quickly and she fought to hold it off. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

That he was still there was comforting and she smiled a little, snuggling under her warm blankets. "I'm not going to sell the drugs. I won't be a drug dealer. I'm going to flush them."

"If you do, the cocaine shall just enter the water system. Water treatment plants are not designed to remove chemicals like that from the water so people all over London shall end up drinking the contaminated water. Children. Infants. Mind you, the dilution shall be so great no one will notice yet-"

"Shut up," she yawned, reaching behind her and smacking him gently. He silenced with a chuckle and she fought to keep a smile off her face. "I'm sleeping. 'Sides, you knew what I meant."

"Yes, I did. I'll help you dispose of the drugs safely, Molly."

"Night Sherlock."

There was a rustle of fabric as her duvet was gently tucked around her, cocooning her in warmth. A chill breeze hit her brow. "Good night, Molly Hooper."

*****

There was coffee brewing when she woke up. The smell was disorienting to her sleep drugged mind, her eyes blinking rapidly as she cursed under her breath. In all the emotional upset she'd forgotten to remove her contacts and now her eyes were burning in pain. Rubbing at them, she sighed and removed the contacts before rummaging about for her glasses. Finding them on top of the dusty brown package she put them on, grabbed her dressing gown, and staggered from the room.

The smell of bacon was also heavy in the air and her eyes widened, rushing into the kitchen and looking for Carl. Her brother must have let himself in with her spare key - why else would breakfast be prepared for her? - but his big friendly presence was nowhere to be found. Instead there was Sherlock, frowning as he coaxed a plate of bacon onto the table, grease spots on the wall and floor showing all the times he had failed. Managing it this time he beamed widely and looked up at her.

"Morning."

Gaping at him, she clutched her dressing gown around her shoulders as she took in the mess that was her kitchen. Besides the bacon grease stains there was bread and eggs everywhere - even on the ceiling! - and her dust bin was full to overflowing. "W-What have you been doing!?" she demanded, eyes narrowing.

"I made you breakfast," Sherlock said, sounding a bit hurt. Levitating the toaster up off the counter he set it down too hard on the table and turned it upside down. Crumbs and two slices of bread fell to the table and he grinned. Looking up at her, he beamed. "I can cook, you know. I'm afraid the scrambled eggs and French toast idea didn't work out - I kept getting bits of shell in it - but I've found I can manage bacon in the microwave. Working with the coffee machine turned out to be simple as well once I determined the best way to move the coffee grounds." He looked at her expectantly. "Well? Aren't you going to eat?"

Still a bit shocked, and not looking forward to cleaning up the mess, Molly sat down. Eagerly, Sherlock pushed the plate of bacon and the two toast slices towards her. "Thank you," she muttered, eyeing the food wearily.

"Jam," Sherlock muttered, waving a hand. The fridge door popped open for him and he glanced towards it, frowning. "You need jam with toast. Would you like the strawberry or-"

"No!" she nearly shouted, eyes going wide. She could just picture it, the jam jar streaking through the air and exploding against her wall, Sherlock frowning and going for a second jar 'to try that again.' "I don't need any jam. You've made so much bacon I think I'll make it into a sandwich. You don't need jam in a bacon butty after all."

This seemed to please him and the fridge door slammed shut as he took a seat across from her. "Oh!" he gasped, jumping back up. "Coffee-"

"I can get it!" she said, leaping up and hurrying to her brewing coffee pot. It was yet another thing she didn't want to see shattered against her wall, the precious liquid hot and seeping all over her floor. Filling a mug quickly she nodded to Sherlock as he opened the fridge for her so she could grab the milk. Mug made she took a seat again and put together her butty. The bacon wasn't all done and some of it was rubbery, but Sherlock just looked so pleased and she didn't have the heart not to eat it.

Meal done - she only hoped it would stay down - she did the dishes before Sherlock could offer. "Thank you for breakfast," she said, turning back to her resident ghost. He nodded to her, smiling widely and it stuck her that Sherlock seemed to glow when he was pleased. An inner light radiating warmth n a way she'd never noticed before. "You didn't have to do that though."

"I want you to get an early start on the package retrieval and you're useless before you get a cup of coffee in you," Sherlock said. Vanishing from his seat he reappeared in the sitting room next to her laptop. "Hurry and get dressed. I'll start typing up directions while you prepare yourself."

Smiling, she nodded and headed towards her bedroom, freezing as she heard her mobile ring. Slowly she turned, her eyes going to the phone that sat next to her laptop near Sherlock. "Wh-who is it?" she asked him, voice wobbling a little.

Lips tightening, Sherlock twitched as he turned his attention to the small screen and read the caller ID. "It's Barts."

Molly stiffened, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm late for my shift," she whispered.

"You can't go back."

"I know," she said. Rubbing her face she took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. "Alright. I'm ready. Could you pass me my phone?"

Concentrating, Sherlock slowly closed his fingers around the mobile and lifted it from the table. He could feel the resistance of the substance that made up his body as it tried to go insubstantial as he held the phone. Brow furrowing, fingers starting to tremble, he quickly walked across the room and dropped the phone into Molly's waiting hands, beaming at her widely at his success.

"You're getting better at that," Molly grinned back. She'd been half hoping he'd drop her mobile and break it though. Anything to avoid this phone call. With a final glance down at her phone she nodded again and answered. "Hello?"

"Oh thank goodness I finally got ahold of you!" Mike's relieved voice came from the other end. "I've been trying to call since the earthquake."

"Earthquake?" Molly repeated, blinking. "What earthquake?"

"Yesterday, in the morgue. You ran off before anyone could ask if you were alright. Were you injured at all? I saw the mess that was made down there by the tremors, it's a marvel that only the windows shattered upstairs."

Something was wrong. Mike was speaking, but he wasn't making any sense. There hadn't been any earthquake. Why was he going on about one? While she tried to comprehend the things her supervisor was saying, Mike continued to speak rapidly.

"With all the damage that's been done, I'm afraid you can't come back to work anytime soon. The morgue especially is a wreck, the cooling system for the lockers has been completely destroyed, not to mention all the hazardous chemicals that need a proper clean up. I've been making calls all morning and managed to convince Kings to take on our body load and they've agreed to take you on as well to help them manage. Would that be alright with you? I'm sure they'll allow you the time to continue your research."

Silence fell between them as Molly tried to recall how to speak, jaw working without sound coming out. "Y-You want me to transfer to Kings?" she finally got out. Sitting back down at her kitchen table, mind racing, she licked her lips slowly. "I could do that."

"Great! They're not expecting you until tomorrow, but if you need time to recover from the shock of it all, call me and I'll arrange for you to start later. I mean, it's not all that often we have earthquakes in London and-"

"Mike," she whispered, her quiet voice interrupting him. "It wasn't an earthquake."

There was a rustling sound from the other end of the line, Mike's voice dropping. "Of course it was. What else could have done all that damage?"

She licked her lips slowly, wondering if what she was going to say next would make Mike think she was completely mental. "There's something down there, Mike. I saw it... It killed Steve. His body was in the furnace room and-"

"I know," Mike said, his voice a whisper over the line. "I know Molly. We found him. He'd been shoved halfway into the furnace and started a bit of a fire and... I know. And because I know you have to work at Kings for now. Their head of pathology should be retiring soon. That should open something up for you."

Tears stung her eyes and she nodded, sniffling a little. "I'll be safe, but what about you Mike? That thing is dangerous. If it finds out that you know about it-"

"I'll be fine," Mike quickly reassured her. "I'm not important enough for it to notice me. I simply don't count. That shall protect me for a while yet."

"But you do count," she whispered. "You matter to me."

He chuckled lowly. "Trust me, I don't. I really, really don't." Voice rising up to his normal volume he continued. "I wish you all the best at Kings, Molly and hope you enjoy it there. I know it's a bit more of a commute, but I believe you'll manage somehow."

With a whispered word of thanks, she disconnected, setting the phone on the table. Sherlock was hovering behind her, face grim as he took in her tearful expression. His hands reached out for her, stopping before he could touch her and dropping back down to his sides. "Tell me," he rumbled, blue eyes boring into her.

"Mike's found me a job at Kings," she whispered, rubbing at her face. "H-He knows about Moriarty and is sending me away to protect me."

"Good," he said with a nod. His eyes drifted away to the floor as he frowned. "At last he's able to do something right."

"But what about him?" she asked. Looking at him as if he held all the answers, she followed him with her eyes as he drifted back to the sitting room and sat in front of her laptop again. "He's there at Barts with Moriarty still and if he's found out he'll be killed. You should have heard him talk about it. He said that he didn't count."

"He doesn't," Sherlock said. His voice firm he slowly began typing on the laptop again, brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm afraid that in the grand scheme of things Mike Stamford doesn't matter in the slightest. Don't feel bad about it, Molly. It's saving his life."

"That's a horrid thing to say," she said, eyes narrowing. Biting her lip she glared at Sherlock. "Mike's a good man."

"He's an idiot. He can't even follow a simple plan correctly."

"Plan? What on earth are you talking-"

"He's the reason I died!" Sherlock shouted, suddenly leaping to his feet. His glare as he cast it about the room was murderous, the room chilling so quickly ice crystals formed on her coffee pot as her breath condensed in the air. Taking in her silence he turned it into rage, the walls and cabinets beginning to shake. "One thing! I asked him to do one thing but he was too much a moron to do it correctly! I would have survived the fall, I could have survived the fall but he-"

With a shout every cabinet flew open, the contents streaming out, glasses shattering as Molly shrieked and dove under the table. As the last glass fell and the room quieted, Molly peeked out from her hiding space,heart in her throat as she surveyed the room. It was a wreck, nearly as bad as the first time all her belongings were destroyed and Sherlock...

Sherlock was gone.

The git.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone except the one that matters asks Molly if she's alright.

"Are you okay?

It was the question on everybody's lips and frankly Molly was starting to get sick of it. She'd thought it was nice when her brother had arrived at her flat, frantically banging on her door and ringing the bell, those words the first thing out of his mouth as he engulfed her in a bone crushing hug. Everyone had wanted to know if she was alright or not. Her friends from Edinburgh, her coworkers old and new, the press who had latched onto the 'Earthquake in London' story and blown it into epic proportions. Even Greg had called her from Australia, his voice almost frantic over the line.

"I just heard the story on the radio. Are you-"

"I'm fine," she yawned, rubbing at her eyes. It was three in the morning in London. She didn't know how far ahead of them Australia was, but for Greg's sake she hoped it was a decent hour where he was. In any case she wasn't certain she would be forgiving him for this, even if he did sound worried. "It wasn't as bad as the papers made it sound."

"Not as bad!? There was a bloody earthquake in London! Right at Saint Barts! You could have been killed!"

Killed? Yes. But not by an earthquake, she thought with a frown. Her nose wrinkled and she rubbed her brow, not enjoying the thought of lying to her friend. While she didn't want him to think she was crazy, she didn't relish having to lie. Though, would Greg think she had gone mad? He seemed to think that Sherlock was somehow still kicking around Baker Street. Or something.

"I'm fine, Greg," she assured him, deciding to skip the lie and truth altogether. "I got out before there was much damage. How's Australia?"

The abrupt change in subject silenced him for a moment. "It's... It's good," he said, voice suddenly going hesitant. Brow furrowing deeper she frowned, wondering why he didn't sound happy. When he left she had thought this was some sort of holiday trip with an old mate. "I ate kangaroo for the first time last night."

Making a face, glad he wasn't there to see it, she rolled over and tried to get comfortable on her pillow again while keeping her phone to her ear. "Aren't those endangered?"

"Not all of them. Or maybe they are, I don't know. They sell the meat in shops so it can't be that bad. Though I've been told that it's mostly the tourists that eat it."

"Have you tried crocodile too?"

"No," he sighed and she could almost picture him, rubbing the back of his head and smiling awkwardly. "Don't think I will. Something seems wrong about eating a giant lizard."

Yawning heavily, she rubbed at her eyes again and wished she knew a not rude way of hanging up. She had work in the morning. "So, what time is it there?" she asked, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Afternoon. We just finished a late lunch, me and... Well, we got back in the hire car and I heard the news on the BBC. Just had to call and make sure you were alright. Why, what time is it back home?"

"Three."

There was a long pause. "In the morning?"

"Yup," she yawned again, popping the P. "Three sixteen actually."

"Oh shit. Christ, I'm sorry, Mols!" Greg said, his voice rising slightly. "I was just so worried and-"

"It's fine," she soothed him, allowing her eyes to drift shut. "It's not a problem, Greg. I'm fine though. Everything's fine."

"Right... Well... I'll e-mail you, okay? I don't think I'll be here much longer. Another week at most. When I get back I'll buy you a pint next time we’re down at the pub to make up for waking you. Promise."

"Okay. Ta Greg," she yawned. Rubbing her eyes again she rang off and faded away into blissful sleep once again.

Yes, everyone she knew wanted to know if she was alright or not after her little 'earthquake' scare. Everyone but the one person she wanted to hear the words "Are you okay?" from the most.

Her ghostly companion Sherlock was missing.

He stayed missing for three days. Just long enough for her to clean up the mess he'd made and start to worry. The flat seemed too quiet without him rattling about. Turning up the telly and leaving the radio on did nothing to fill up the silence. She played Adele’s _Skyfall_ at full volume just to annoy him – she was feeling a bit mean as well to be perfectly honest – but he didn’t appear to snipe at her or to turn down the noise himself. Sitting and eating her dinner while watching telly she couldn't help but miss her ghost a little bit.

Dinner time for some reason was especially hard. If he had been there, his presence next to her, he would have demanded she turn the telly over to something less idiotic or his violin would be screeching his displeasure upstairs. If he had been there he would have interrogated her about all the ways her new job at Kings differed from Barts and demanding that she bring him home parts. He would have frowned over her eating so much take out and whined that she had forgotten to purchase milk. Picking at her chicken tikka she sighed and dropped the carton on her now battered coffee table. Dammit, for all of his unpleasantness she missed the bastard.

Where was Sherlock?

Could he be gone, gone? For good? She hoped not. Not without saying goodbye at least. He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye would he? God, she hoped he wasn't gone.

Sherlock's words of rage and fear haunted her in the days spent without him. She couldn't stop thinking about them, obsessing over what he could have meant. Lingering outside of St. Barts after leaving her new job at Kings, she looked at the old pathology wing and spent her time wondering. If Sherlock hadn't really meant to commit suicide, if he'd wanted to live, how would he have done it? What part would Mike have played?

A thousand million scenarios played through her head, each one more ridiculous than the next. Walking past the doors she had once entered she stopped to stare at Moriarty and let him stare at her in return. Besuited and calm, he gazed at her with glassy eyes, his hair carefully smoothed back. Giving her a wicked grin, he crooked a finger at her, gesturing for her to enter.

His smile was like a magnet. Her stomach lurched and she took a step towards the doors, their gazes locked. Wider and wider he smiled as she got closer and closer to the doors until she was less than a foot away.

“Hi!” he cooed, wiggling his fingers at her in a wave. “Have you come to play?”

She gazed at him for another long moment and reached for the door. Freezing as her hands touched the knob she frowned deeply and very slowly took a step back.

Instantly Moriarty’s smile turned into a glower. “Molly, come inside,” he ordered but she shook her head no.

Turning, she stumbled and quickly walked on. His gaze was heated on her back, his mad laugh following her until she turned a corner and vanished from sight.

Mike was at the cafe just as he promised he would be, the box of her things at his feet. Thanking him, she offered to buy him a pastry before sitting down across from him.

"How are you liking Kings so far?" he asked, stirring his tea and smiling kindly at her. "Settling in well?"

"It's great," she assured him. They spent an hour talking of the equipment and staff, of all the little quirks that a new job had that you never expected until you started there. Realizing she'd stretched her story of the nice girl who worked reception and handled the paperwork too long, Molly grew quiet and stared down at her cold tea for a long moment before speaking again. "What about you?" she asked, voice quiet. "How are you holding up?"

"We'll be fine," he smiled in return, his own drink long drained. "Getting the morgue and lab back up and running is going to take longer than expected though. The spills have been taken care of, but the equipment damage was quite extensive and the insurance company is being difficult about paying out. Not to mention all the paperwork that's been lost. Really it could be months, maybe even a year before we're ready to open back up."

She shook her head, reaching across the table to cover his hand with hers. "That wasn't what I meant, Mike. How are you? Are you safe?"

Stilling under her touch, Mike's eyes went soft as he gently patted her hand. "Don't worry about me, Molly. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be just fine."

*****

Sherlock was waiting for her when she returned, his face grey and his hands steepled before him as he sat in his seat. The room seemed to brighten as she entered the flat, his eyes darting to her and taking her in. "You were late coming home," he said. His eyes took in the box, lip twitching. "You stopped by Barts."

"Sort of," she agreed, setting the box in her hands down by the door. She toed off her shoes, donning her jumper before going to settle on the couch. "Mike and I met at a cafe near Barts where he gave me my things. He cleaned out my desk and locker for me."

Despite his mouth twisting in displeasure at the mention of Mike's name, Sherlock nodded and stood. "Good." Going over to stand by the front windows overlooking the street, Sherlock stared down at the passing people and cars for a minute before raising his hands. Obligingly, his violin appeared in them and he began to play. It was something soft and sweet, a tune she hadn't heard before.

He continued to play as Molly placed her takeaway order and came back into the sitting room. Taking a seat on the sofa, she gazed over at Sherlock, pulling her knees to her chest. "Sherlock?" The music paused mid-note, his head tilting towards her to let her know he was listening. Wrapping her arms around her knees she looked at him for a moment, sending him a wobbly smile. "Please don't vanish like that again. Not without telling me how long you're going to be gone for or not without saying goodbye first."

Starting to play again, he continued the slow, sweet song before coming to a pause again. "Don't go to Barts ever again. Stay away from the building too. As far as possible."

Neither of them spoke the name but both of them thought of the man then. Moriarty. She could picture him behind the glass doors, his face warm and inviting as he gestured for her to enter. For just a moment she had wanted to as well. Wanted to pass through the wide doors and into his embrace and-

She shivered, gripping her knees tighter. "Deal," she whispered.

With a nod he began to play once more. The music rose and fell, swirling through the flat like cherry blossoms in the wind and leaving a feeling of peace behind. He played that song quite a bit in the days that followed. The sweet sound becoming familiar and friendly to her as it kept her company through the day. Once she asked him what the song was and he had shrugged, carefully putting away his violin.

"Just something I've been composing," he said, voice casual as he snapped the case shut and carefully set it aside.

"Oh," she gasped, eyes going wide. While she had known he was a genius, she hadn't realized he was talented enough to write his own music. The knowledge made her feel a little useless, thinking of her once again abandoned knitting hobby. She'd gotten a bit carried away with a scarf she had made, the length of it turning into something out of Doctor Who rather than something she could easily wear about. The ghost in her flat was more talented than she was. It was a sobering thought. "Does it have a name yet?"

He looked at her then, his blue eyes boring into her. Straightening, he gazed down at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Molly," he said and then abruptly vanished. His footsteps echoed above her then, as he walked about and did whatever it was he did in the privacy of the upstairs room.

Standing in her now silent sitting room, Molly bit her lip and wondered what her ghost had meant by saying her name. Was he telling her the name of the song he was writing or trying to tell her to mind her own business? With Sherlock it was so difficult to tell sometimes. For a moment longer she debated going upstairs and requesting he clarify but in the end decided it didn't matter. If he had been telling her off she'd only get annoyed with him. And if he had named the song after her, well...

She'd be terrified.

*****

Tranquility filled the days that followed. Kings was just as nice a hospital as Barts - in some ways their facilities were better - and she had started to make real progress towards her research topic. Now that Sherlock was back, her home life fell into a soothing routine full of takeaway, telly, and bickering with Sherlock over how many brain cells an average episode of Downton Abbey killed. He, of course, preferred QI.

Yes, things were finally starting to look up once more and Molly was content with life again. Which meant that everything was destined to fall to hell. In the most spectacular way possible.

*****

It started on the tube.

London was a strange city. Multinational and ever evolving, it was a strange mix of all nationalities, races, and a blend of old and new that could only be found in ancient capital cities. Honestly, that was one of the reasons she liked living in London, this mix of all the ages. Yet, even this teen was odd for the morning commute. He’d gotten into the same carriage as her at Regent’s Park, face resigned as he shuffled into a corner in the crowded space. Dressed in Doc Martins, ripped and faded jeans, a dirty blazer featuring an awful lot of safety pins, and a t-shirt with faded black marker all over it, Molly was mostly surprised at how sad the punk youth looked.

While she was used to seeing people dressed like punks – though perhaps not to this extent in recent years – she’d never seen one look quite so sad before. Yet there he was, sniffling and looking as if he might start to weep as he stared at a young girl in a Ramones t-shirt, looking sadder than she could bear. Frowning, as the carriage slowed for Oxford Circus, she waited until the carriage had emptied a bit more before sliding over to his side. He ignored her utterly, wiping at his nose with the back of one of his grimy hands.

Unsure as to how to break the great taboo of enquiring after strangers in public, Molly smiled at him weakly before sighing and deciding to go all in. “I like your hair,” she said, turning her smile brighter. “It’s very red. Does it take a lot of trouble keeping it that colour?”

The teen blinked for a moment, before turning to her slowly. Eyes wide and bloodshot, he stared at her for a moment. “Are you talkin’ to me?” he asked in a south London accent that seemed far too small for someone who looked so fearsome. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you,” she apologized automatically. Despite wanting to move away and forget about ever bothering the poor kid, the carriage was full and in motion again. Sighing, she realized that she wouldn’t be able to move away until Piccadilly, maybe not even until Charing Cross. The teen was still staring at her though and she smiled at him weakly, deciding to take another shot. “Sorry, but I was just wondering if you were alright? I’m not used to seeing weeping punks on the Tube.”

Wetting his lips, the teen stared at her for another moment until he managed to speak. “I died in 1976,” he whispered. His voice was soft but she could hear it easily over the noise of the underground. His brown eyes bore into her and time seemed to slow down, the rest of the world fading out as the two of them stared at each other. “It was July. I was goin’ home with me mates from the Roundhouse when I fell off dah platform. Gave me a cracking headache, it did and then the train came and I died.”

Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, everything about her feeling slow and stupid with only one thought coming to mind. “Why are you on the Bakerloo line then? If you were up at Chalk Farm shouldn’t you be on the Northern?”

He shrugged. “Went to Regent’s and got a bit drunk. Musta made me a divvy, considerin I fell off.” Licking his lips again he stared at Molly intently, narrow eyes wide. “Nobody’s ever seen me before. You one of them, whatcha call ‘em, medium types?”

Shaking her head slowly, she frowned then nodded. “Must be. You’re not my first ghost after all.”

“Knew it!” the teen grinned. Color began to bleed back in around the edges, the noise of the carriage coming back. Dimly, Molly realized that the voice on the Tube was announcing her stop of Elephant and Castle. “Think you could help me with somethin’?”

Blinking, the world seemed to be moving too fast around her the colors and sounds blurring at the edges. The punk teen in front of her was the only solid object and she gasped, grabbing her chest for air as the world spun. “Of course,” she found herself saying with no real idea how the sounds passed her lips. “How can I help?”

“That’s ace!” the punk kid was grinning, moving with her through the chaos of the world. “I was at this brill concert before I died. Saw some blokes named the Ramones and, cor, I fell in love. Keep seein shirts for them about, they musta got famous. Could you figgur out a way for me to take a listen to their records?”

The doors to the platform had opened, the sea of people moving out towards work and Molly pushed with them. Gasping loudly she felt fresh air fill her lungs as she left the carriage. Staggering and breathing heavily, she made her way to a wall and braced herself against it as the punk teen followed her. He looked paler, not as real outside of the carriage though his face was just as arresting.

“Please miss?”

Breath caught, world returning, Molly looked up at the punk teen as he began to fade away. “What’s your name?” she asked, smiling at him.

“Ricky. I-I mean, Richard miss.”

“I’ll be back with mp3s, Ricky and we can listen to them on my way back home after work.”

Ricky grinned at her widely, lips pulled back into a smile hanging in the air for a moment after he faded. Like a Cheshire cat out of Wonderland, Molly thought to herself as she righted herself and hurried for the world above.

A world that was suddenly filled with ghosts.

As if a veil had been lifted, Molly exited into a London controlled by the dead. The city seethed with ghosts, their number beyond counting. Men dressed in cavalier garb with funny wigs and wide lace collars walked the streets with women in full dresses and parasols. Roman soldiers marched, heedless of the buildings or cars while people dressed in war era garb wandered listlessly around. Drenched in blood, missing limbs, and perfectly fine they controlled the streets, the living their temporary guests.

There were so many, so very many of them. The layers of history, the generations of dead who had walked these streets before her were there now, milling, chatting, minding their own business. The majority of them didn’t seem to notice the living moving among them but a few looked at her oddly, squinting as if she were something odd and new. One reached out for her, their face mangled and gored, the distinctive greatcoat of an RAF pilot covering what had been a stick thin man’s body and it was all Molly could do not to scream.

Ducking back out of his reach, her back hit the trunk of a street tree and nearly collapsed against it. The RAF ghost looked about for a moment, her chest froze as she realized he was searching for her, but then he gave up. His face blurred for a moment and suddenly he was handsome and whole again, looking about him one last time before he hurried off along the street.

The world seemed to grey, taking the living into twilight with them. Sound slowed as it had on the tube, the movements of the living and dead blurring as they drifted around her. A woman, alive, passing nearby seemed to see her pressed up against the tree and frowned. Looking to be on the verge of saying something to her, the woman’s face slowly stilled and then went blank as she shook herself and continued on her commute. 

Molly covered her face in her hands and tried to control her breath. She was hyperventilating, panicking. The lives of so many dead were blinding her to the world of life. A horse trotted down the street, a man dressed in an outfit she didn’t even recognize perched proudly upon its back. He shouted at her in a language she didn’t understand and vanished through a wall into a sandwich shop.

Sliding to the ground, Molly wrapped her arms around herself and wept.

*****

“You alright, love?” a voice asked her. The voice was kind and patient. Sniffling, Molly wiped her face with her hand and looked up to meet the milky blue eyes of an elderly woman. Dressed in long floral dressing gown and wellies the woman smiled at her sweetly from under her tightly permed hair. “You look a bit out of sorts. Fancy a cuppa?”

Molly blinked and the woman went transparent, the street and it’s inhabitants appearing through her before she went solid again. “You’re dead,” she whispered. Nausea rolled her stomach and she bit her bottom lip, trying to keep down breakfast.

“Oh bless. That I am, love,” the woman said, smiling at her widely. “Heart attack I’m afraid. It was a few years ago, right after Christmas. So glad I managed to hold off that long, I’ve found it’s better to be alive during Christmas. There’s pudding if you’re alive.”

Shivering, Molly pulled her arms tighter around herself. “Why are you still here? Why are all those people still here? Shouldn’t you all have… moved on or something?”

The woman glanced around them where the dead were milling with the living and gave a bit of a shrug. “I’m afraid I can’t say for those lot, but I’m still here to watch over our Billy.” She pointed towards a young man who was drumming on the street corner. “He’s a musician and an actor,” she said, voice full of pride. “But I worry for him. He’s a gay man and his mum sent him on his way when she found out, heart of stone that one. Our Billy was staying with me when I nodded off and now he’s all by his lonesome. I like to stay close and make certain he’s alright.”

Molly nodded, finding the woman’s words soothing as she calmed down. Staggering to her feet, she leaned against the tree and tried to relax. “I don’t know what’s happened to me,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead. “I didn’t use to see ghosts but then I moved to London and my flat was haunted and then it turned out my work was haunted and-“ She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

The old woman smiled at her sweetly. “A nice cuppa and a bit of _Corrie_ always did me well when there was a problem at hand. If nothing else, your problem couldn’t be nearly as bad as some of the ones those people face. Affairs, lies, murder, oh those poor people have problems,” she said.

Smiling, Molly shakily got out her mobile. “I don’t think that’s going to help,” she said. Gaze still a bit fuzzy around the edges she managed to get a text off to her new boss at Kings saying that she wouldn’t be in. Fussing with her cab summoning app, she sighed as her request went through. Slowly she moved away from the tree, her hand still clutching the rough bark as an anchor, trying to keep her gaze on the ground. “I just called a cab, could you keep an eye out for it?”

“You called a cab? How did you manage that? You didn’t even ring anyone on your mobile!” the old woman asked. She didn’t wait for a reply though, going out to the street edge near her grandson. Becoming distracted almost instantly she beamed at her Billy, swaying off-beat to the pounding of his drums as Molly tracked her cab’s approach with her phone.

If she kept her head down and didn’t look at any of the living or dead she didn’t feel quite as sick, she quickly realized. Eyes glued to her phone she concentrated on breathing evenly until the little cab symbol made its way to her location and a black car pulled up to the kerb. Summoning her strength, she darted forward, hauling the door open and plunging inside with a gasp. “221 Baker Street, please,” she said, sinking down into her seat and covering her eyes with her hands.

The cab driver looked back at her, his brow furrowing. “You alright there?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m fine. Just coming down with a bit of something is all. Baker Street, please. The quickest route you know.”

Shrugging, the cab driver nodded and pulled out into the congestion of early morning London. It would have been faster to take the tube back home – at some points it seemed like it would have been faster to walk – but at least in the cab it was quiet but for the cabbie’s music. There were no shadowy dead and no press of life and she sighed, laying down on the back bench.

Despite her best efforts, tears sprang to her eyes. More ghosts. More madness. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. All she wanted was to be home in the safety of her flat. To go back to a time when she only had one ghost, as annoying and bad tempered as he might be. She worked with the dead, she didn’t necessarily want to share her world with them.

Nearly forty five minutes later the cab came to a halt. Pushing herself upright she fished out her mobile, paid electronically and tipped the driver, before stumbling out. For a moment she wished that Sherlock would just open the door for her automatically as he would sometimes do, but she doubted that he would be expecting her right now. She hadn’t a clue what her ghost did during the day when she was out, but she hoped that he wouldn’t be too much of a pest. All she wanted was a cuppa, the rest of the package of Penguins, and a good long nap. Everything could be cleared up if she just had a cuppa and a nap, she just knew it.

Fumbling with the lock she, for once, dropped her handbag and coat in the front hall before trudging up the stairs. Considering that she was the only one in the building besides Sherlock, there really wasn’t any point to carrying it all up to her flat. Especially when she was feeling poorly.

Rubbing her brow she shoved open her flat’s door and staggered towards the bathroom. New plan. Paracetamol then tea, biscuits, and nap. Genius, if she did say so herself.

Opening the door to the bathroom she jumped, gasping and clutching at her chest as the door opened to reveal Sherlock glaring down at her. “What are you doing here?” he growled, face full of fury as he bore down on her. “You can’t be here. Leave immediately.”

“Shut up,” she groaned, twisting to dart around him. Opening the medicine cabinet she rummaged about, looking for the blister pack she wanted. “I can’t leave. There are ghosts all over London and I couldn’t make it to work. I need paracetamol and a nap, not you hovering over me and being all cross. I’m sorry I ruined your day, but-“

“That’s not it,” Sherlock snapped. His eyes kept darting down the hall and he frowned, biting his bottom lip. “You can tell me all about your rubbish day later, but now you have to leave.”

Her hands shook as she struggled to get the medicine out and she shook her head. “No, Sherlock. You don’t understand. I’m seeing ghosts all over London. There’s thousands of them, maybe even millions, and they’re just out roaming the streets. Can you imagine what they’d be like in a hospital where people actually _go_ to die? I’m staying home today, maybe forever.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock growled deep in his throat. “I don’t have time to explain! Molly you have to trust me when I say that you have to leave and it has to be now.”

“Sherlock, no,” she sighed. Getting two tablets out she popped them in her mouth and turned on the taps, leaning over to take a drink directly. Shutting the water back off she turned to face her hovering ghost, frowning as he glowered at her. “Can we _please_ get along today?” she asked, voice pleading. “I know you must like it when I’m out of the flat but-”

“It’s _not that!_ ” Sherlock shouted, reaching out and seizing her by the shoulders. A freezing chill shot through her body and from the way Sherlock winced and bit his lip she knew he had to be in pain too. “Molly run! _Run now!_ There’s an intruder in the flat!”

“What?” she gasped. Blinking, she gaped at him soundlessly until he groaned. Gripping her firmly despite the pain they were both in, he pitched her from the room. 

“ _Run!_ ” he shouted at her, eyes glowing and hair wild. “ _ **Now!**_ ”

Intruder? Her mind screamed as she stumbled over her own feet and headed for the door. Suddenly she was glad that she had left her belongings in the hall. She could grab them as she ran out, call the police and-

“No not that way!” Sherlock called after her, voice desperate as she ran into the sitting room. She could see tendrils of cold wrap around her, pulling her back towards the bathroom. “Back stairs, through my bedroom!”

She turned to look back to him, brow furrowed in confusion. She didn’t understand, this way was faster considering the back door stuck and she was almost there anyway. Opening her mouth to tell him this, she stopped as she saw Sherlock’s face go even whiter than normal, his expression growing panicked. He was looking at something behind her and as she turned back to look she saw a large black figure baring down at her, the butt of the gun in his hand racing towards her head.

Sherlock threw his hand out towards her as if trying to pull her away. “Molly!”

Molly moved to block the blow, but she was too slow. The gun butt struck her temple and she cried out, collapsing to the floor. Stars exploded behind her eyes, her ears rung with the sound of someone shouting her name, and then suddenly - blissfully - all went black.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly meets a man she rather didn't want to.

_In her mind she dreamed._

The universe was laid out before her, the pulsing stars and riotous nebulae stretching out as far as her eyes could see. She floated weightless as the lights and gasses swirled around her, creation taking form. It consolidated, the great wash of colors taking shape around her faster then she could process what was happening. Chaotic and nauseating, she couldn't take her eyes off of the intensity that surrounded her until it began to still, forming a field of flowers and stick figure people. Wax flaked from her crayon and she bit her lip, brow furrowed in concentration. This was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

Reaching for her box, she fussed through the colors, frowning as she couldn't find the shade she wanted. This was why she needed the bigger color box. The one that Mummy wouldn't buy her. Mummy said the box of twenty-four crayons was enough, but it really wasn't. Mummy was at the stove, baking something sweet. She must have had a bad day at the shops. Mummy always baked when she had a bad day at the shop.

The smell of cinnamon was heavy in the air.

Shutting the oven door, Mummy turned on the radio. Twangy guitars and drums played as the singer spoke in a vaguely familiar voice, "Molly, wake up. You have to wake up, Molly. I can't protect you when I'm like this."

She looked towards the radio, a name forming on her lips but got distracted as her eyes caught sight of what was outside. Standing among the flowers, next to her swing set was a strange man in the garden. Surrounded by the washed out greys a cloudy day gave the outside world, the man seemed oddly bright. His face was blue and purple, red eyes bulging, his dark black tongue hanging out of his mouth. The front of his trousers was wet and dripping while his fingertips were bloody and red from the scratches that surrounded the brown rope that was tight around his neck. His toes only barely touched the ground. Mostly he hovered. He was staring at the house.

Frowning, she turned towards her mother. "Mummy, there's a man in the yard," she said.

Her mother turned around. Her face was smooth and unbroken, with no features to be seen. Instead of eyes she had sunken depressions where they should have been, her nose a mere bump in the pale faceless expanse. "There is?" she asked, somehow speaking through unbroken skin.

Part of her recoiled in terror, but the rest of her simply nodded. Frowning a little she looked back towards the man. He was standing just beyond the glass now, glass fogging, his bulging bloody eyes fixed on her. She screamed.

Her faceless mother screamed as well, grabbing her and pulling her away from the table as the man pressed his way through the glass. He made a hissing wet sound as he went through, though he left no mark. "No! Not my daughter!" her mother screamed. "No, no god please!"

The man was reaching towards them both with hooked claw like hands, making high pitched whining grunts. Her mother was screaming, pleading, and shoving her back, out of the hanged man's grip. Still screaming, her mother threw herself at the man and then fell down.

There was quiet, the dimly playing radio with the singer calling her name the only sound.

Peeking out from her hiding place under a chair, face wet, she looked for the hanged man. He was gone. Her mother laid on the floor. She was curled into a ball, her long braid splayed out over the floor as she convulsed. Her entire body shook, foam appearing on her lips as she gurgled then laid still.

"Mummy?" she sniffled, crawling out from under the chair. She looked around again for the hanged man but found they were alone. Reaching out she touched her mother's shoulder, shaking her gently. "Mummy?"

Her mother didn't move. Her mother never moved again. From upstairs she heard Carl start to fuss then scream when their mother didn't appear to feed him and change his wet nappy, but that didn't matter at all. All that mattered was that she couldn't wake her mother no matter how much she shook her and shouted. Tears poured down her face without end as she screamed for her Mummy to wake up.

The smell of burning cookies started to fill the air as the song on the radio changed. The singer was the same though. "Molly, you have to wake up. Right now. Molly, when he realizes that what he wants isn't here he's going to come for you and you need to be awake when he does. Open your eyes. For me. Please."

Carl was screaming upstairs, his wailing calling her name. "Molly. Mooooollllllllllllllyyyyy."

The neighbors, drawn in by the sounds of children in distress began to pound on the door. "Molly wake up. You have to wake up."

She shook her head and sobbed, clutching her still and far too cold mother. Smoke was beginning to waft out of the stove. Beneath her grasp her mother shook and sat up, peering at her with glacial blue eyes. Staring back, transfixed, she sniffled loudly as wondered where her mother's comforting brown eyes had gone. Taking her hands, her mother squeezed them tightly as she spoke in a man's voice. " _Molly._ "

*****

Everything hurt. That was her first conscious thought as she moaned lowly and tried to open her eyes. Her head hurt. Arms and legs too. What had happened?

"Molly? Molly, are you awake?" a familiar male voice asked and she groaned. She'd been dreaming about a voice just like that one. It had been out of place though, it shouldn't have been there, but she couldn't remember why it had seemed so strange. She tried to remember, but the dream was fleeting, racing away from her quicker than she could recall it. "Molly?"

She recognized the voice and tried to open her eyes, tried to figure out why she seemed unable to move. "Shhhh-lock…"

"Yes," Sherlock's voice said and she could hear the relief in it. "I'm here, Molly."

There was a loud crash from upstairs and she winced, head throbbing. Cracking her eyes, she shut them again tightly as the light blinded her. "Wha-?"

"It's all my fault," Sherlock said, interpreting her groaned words. There was an edge of something in his voice that she'd never heard before. A tight edge that made her think of fear and narrow ledges with sad voices on the other side of a phone. She didn't like it, hearing him speaking with that voice. "I thought I could find the evidence I needed to clear my name from here. You'd already done so much I thought I could finish it. I never thought they'd still be watching though, Molly. I didn't mean to put you in danger."

"S'kay," she managed to get out and her eyes fluttered open again. Blinking rapidly she tried to see what where she was. She was in her sitting room. That much was obvious from the wide eyed Sherlock who was kneeling before her and the hideous Victorian wallpaper that covered the walls. Still blinking, she frowned deeply. How she hated that wallpaper. It needed to come down. There were three different wallpapers covering the walls of her sitting room and in her option, that was two wallpapers too many. Maybe if there was just the one she'd-

"Molly," she heard Sherlock say and she blinked, trying to focus her eyes on him. His eyes were wide and blue and he looked so very young as he gazed up at her from her kneeling position. God, he was beautiful. Actually beautiful, not even merely handsome like most blokes were. "Molly, I need you to concentrate. Your life depends on it. Do you trust me?"

Swallowing against her dry mouth she nodded weakly. "Yes."

He smiled at her, one of the smiles that didn't seem to reach his eyes. "Good," he said, but that edge was still plainly written on his face and in his voice. "Very good. Just do everything I say and you'll be fine. I promise."

She nodded again as there was another loud crash from upstairs. Frowning, she opened her mouth to yell at Sherlock for making a mess then frowned as she caught sight of the ghost in front of her again. Trying to stand, she frowned deeper as she realized she couldn't move. She'd been bound to one of her own kitchen chairs, hands tight behind her and taped to the plain wooden chair. Her heart began to race as she struggled, the sound of footsteps on the stairs coming towards her. Memories flooded back of Sherlock trying to convince her to flee and then a dark shape bearing down upon her. Breath short, her eyes were wide as she gazed at the open doorway leading to the stairs.

In a flash, Sherlock was there. His eyes met hers and she was arrested by the blue in them as he held up his hands in a soothing gesture. "Calm down," he said, voice steely and firm. "You need to calm down, Molly. I'll get you through this, I promise. Just keep your eyes on me and repeat what I say. Can you do that?"

The steps were getting closer and she felt her palms begin to sweat. "Sherlock, I-"

"No arguing. Can you do that for me, Molly?" he asked again, voice tight.

Swallowing again she nodded. "Y-yes," she gasped.

Smiling at her weakly, Sherlock's shoulders relaxed. "Good. Just remember that I'm here, Molly. I won't leave you," he said, and vanished from sight.

Panic welled up in her throat. He had just said he wasn't going to leave her and now he was gone. She struggled against her bonds trying to get free but froze as a black clad figure appeared in the doorway. The tall broad man who stepped into the room was dressed in black from head to toe with a heavy black vest on. He looked like something out of the movies, someone who was with the paramilitary special ops or someone that needed to dress to kill. Molly shivered, mouth gone dry as she realized that she might be the one who was going to be killed.

The man grabbed another one of her kitchen chairs and pulled it towards her, sitting down on it and crossing his legs. He smiled at her through the ski mask, grey eyes steely. "Doctor Hooper," he sneered, relaxing into his seat. He spoke with what sounded like an American accent, but she didn't know what part of America it was. Films had only taught her so much. "We meet at last."

Eyes wide, her gaze was locked onto the gun holstered to the man's side. She'd never seen a gun outside of telly. Never. She felt her breath grow short and she wheezed, feeling as if she were about to wet herself and pass out at the same time. She was a pathologist for god's sake. She was supposed to stay in a laboratory and spend far too much time with dead bodies. How was it that this was already the second time in less than a month that her life was being threatened?

"Molly," Sherlock's voice said and she looked up to see Sherlock standing just behind the black clad man. He smiled at her, face tense. "Look at me, not him, and say what I say. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded weakly.

Sherlock's smile softened into something more genuine. "Good girl. Now this is what you're going to say; 'It's Ms. Hooper actually. I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons after all, and reverse snobbery says I shun the title of Doctor.'"

Swallowing hard, she stared at Sherlock wondering if he had gone mad. Being rude to the man with the gun seemed like a very bad idea but she licked her lips and carefully said the words. To her surprise the man laughed, slapping his knee. "Of course, Ms. Hooper," he said, grinning behind his mask. "That's more like it, really. How I pictured you'd be. I have to admit I was quite shocked when I tracked down the person who was unraveling my boss' lies and found out it was you, a mere wisp of a woman."

Sherlock scowled and she tried her best to scowl too. "Appearances can be deceiving," she said, trying to copy Sherlock's tone as she said the words. "In any case, why should you care what I choose to look into in my spare time? Moriarty's dead."

The man nodded, eyes beyond the mask going flinty. "He is," he agreed, hands tightening into fists. "That doesn't mean I should let his death be in vain."

Sherlock was silent so she was as well as the man studied her carefully. She kept her gaze locked on Sherlock, the sight of the familiar ghost soothing as he gazed back at her with a calm expression on his face. "You're alright," he said, addressing her. "I promise that you'll be alright, Molly."

Smiling back at him, Molly felt herself calm. This wasn't going to be like Moriarty in the basement of Barts. She had Sherlock this time. If he said she was going to be okay, then she was going to get out of this just fine. She trusted him.

The man in black spoke first, settling back into his chair. "Oh, how rude of me. Introductions are still in order. I'm-"

"I know who you are. You're Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man," she said sharply, interrupting him with Sherlock's words. The name meant nothing to her, but considering the way the man flinched she knew Sherlock had been completely correct. "You're the one Moriarty kept around so he wouldn't have a mess on his hands."

Leaning forward the man, Moran, reached up and carefully removed the ski mask. He revealed a chiseled face with a square jaw and stubble. Blond, short cropped hair sprang back into place as he dropped the mask onto his lap and glared at her from his cold grey eyes. "That's one way of putting it," he growled, voice dark. "If you know who I am then of course you know what I'll do to you if you don't give me what I want."

"If you were going to kill me you would have done it already," Molly said, but she was unable to copy Sherlock's flippant tone perfectly. Instead of confidence, her voice wobbled as her throat went tight again. "We both know your skill with an air rifle. I would be another mystery in the vein of Reginald Adair if you truly wanted me dead."

Moran's face revealed the shock that Molly felt. She remembered the Adair case. It had been one of the ones she'd smuggled home to amuse Sherlock and try to keep him out of trouble. It had kept his interest for a whole two hours until he'd announced that the revolver gauge bullet had been shot through the open third story window by a modified air rifle. Questioning him about the case after that grand pronouncement had done nothing as her ghost had fallen into a sulk afterwards and refused to do anything but pout and play his violin. She'd passed her suspicions on to Greg, but she didn't think anything had ever come of it. Now to find out that the murderer was sitting directly in front of her, gun at his side, well…

She was starting to regret ever agreeing to move back in with Sherlock.

She'd never been tied up in her own kitchen before she'd met him. Life before Sherlock had been boring and she could do with a little more boring in her life if this was what the alternative was.

"You're a little proper Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" He eyed her again more carefully, hands twitching. "Did you ever meet him when he was alive?"

"No," she answered without Sherlock's prompting. She smiled at her friend weakly and he smiled slowly back. "I immensely regret not getting the chance to know him though."

Moran snorted loudly, shaking his head. "You would have regretted meeting him. He was a raging asshole. All of his so called friends were relieved when he died." The big man shivered as Sherlock glared at him murderously.

"I don't believe that," Molly snapped, again without prompting.

"You should," he shot back. He shifted in his chair, shivering again at the presence of the ghost hovering just beyond his shoulder. Eyeing her again, Moran smiled. "I suppose it doesn't matter though. What matters is the evidence. Where are you hiding it, Ms. Hooper?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it. "What evidence?" she asked, brow furrowing.

If anything, Moran looked disappointed as he leaned back in his chair. "Don't try to act coy now, Ms. Hooper. The evidence that you've been collecting on Jim. I want it. Every bit of it."

She looked to Sherlock who frowned a little, lip twitching. "It's not here," he said and she repeated it.

Moran leaned forward, his eyes gone hard. "I know, Ms. Hooper. That's the only reason you're still alive after all. I need that evidence. Where is it?"

She licked her lips, swallowing hard as Sherlock spoke. "It's at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital where I work. I hid the evidence in a broken body cooler. In the very back there's a loose panel you can pry out."

It was a lie. She knew it was a lie without even knowing all of Sherlock's tells. There was no way her ghost could have left the flat to hide the evidence there, no way that there was anything there that could be found. She met Moran's eyes though, staring into them and trying not to quake as he sized her up. Eyes traveling her body, Moran watched her carefully with a slight frown on his face. She could feel her ears heating up and hoped he wouldn't notice.

At last Moran nodded, sitting back with a smirk. "I believe you," he said and she tried not to sigh in relief. "Which body cooler?"

"Bottom far left," Molly said, repeating Sherlock's words. "You'll have to hurry though. There was an accident in the lab and all of the coolers are scheduled for removal. I haven't had the chance to go in and collect them yet."

Moran was quiet, gazing at her evenly. His eyes raked her body from head to toe and slowly he smiled. "I believe you," he said.

Both she and Sherlock practically sagged in relief. "Don't worry, Molly. He's not going to hurt you until he has the evidence in hand. As soon as he leaves I'll find a way to undo your bonds and-"

Standing, Moran came over and knelt beside her. A knife, long and jagged with a bright silver edge gleamed in his hand as he put it to work, cutting the duct tape from her skin. He grinned up at her bewildered expression, his eyes serious. "You're coming with me."

"I- what?" she gasped.

Sherlock stiffened, her ghost somehow going more pale as he stared at Moran with wide eyes. "No," he whispered.

"Did you honestly think I was going to leave you here alone?" Moran laughed, his chuckles low and dry. "How stupid do you think I am?"

"He can't take you, I can't protect you if he takes you," Sherlock was muttered, his vapourous form beginning to pace. "He can't. He can't-"

"Sherlock," she breathed then cried out loudly in pain. The bonds were off and the blood rushing back through her fingers felt like knives under her nails. She cried out again as Moran seized her arm, hauling her to her feet. Sherlock stood frozen, his eyes on her with a sort of mute horror inside of them. The fear of being able to do nothing when everything was on the line. Being yanked towards the door, Molly held her ground and tried to struggle out of his iron grip. "Let go of me!"

"Let's not make this any more difficult than it already is," Moran growled. His hands gripped her arm tighter as she tried to pull away. "Come now, Ms. Hooper. If you don't make a fuss I'll even let you live."

The temperature of the room dropped as Sherlock went more solid. "Liar," he whispered, eyes intent on Moran.

That pronouncement only made her struggle harder. Moran was going to kill her as soon as he found out that there wasn't any evidence and if he didn't do it then Moriarty would. She couldn't go back to Barts, not with that ghastly ghoul in residence. Breaking free she made a run for her bedroom and the back door only to be seized around the waist by Moran. She screamed as he lifted her off her feet, pulling her back through the kitchen and into the sitting room. Trying to pry his hands off of her, she writhed in his grip and only got herself turned about for her trouble. Without thought she dug her nails into his face, blunt instruments ripping and tearing as blood welled through the wounds.

It was Moran's turn to scream. Dropping her he screamed, "You bitch!" as he clutched at his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

Sherlock was at her elbow, long coat swishing in an invisible breeze. "Run Molly," he whispered, eyes still on Moran. "Please."

There was no need to tell her twice. Breath heaving, tears in her eyes, Molly turned and ran towards the door. She was tackled before she could even make it halfway.

Screaming and shrieking she fought as Moran forced her body under his. Moran's eyes were cold, determined and angry as he grabbed her wrists, forcing them away. He struggled her arms down, pinning them between his legs as he straddled her chest and then she was trapped. She gasped up at him, tears streaming from her eyes as he glared down.

"You shouldn't have struggled," he growled. His knife was back in his hand as he raised it above her head before plunging it down.

"No!" Sherlock screamed.

Glass shattered, every light fixture and window exploding inward from the force of Sherlock's rage. Icy wind roared through the flat as every door and cupboard began to pound open and shut so hard it shook the floor.

Moran froze, his gaze darting up to take in the dark figure that now suddenly stood in the center of the room. Sherlock Holmes. His face dripped blood and his eyes flashed fire as he stepped towards them, wind rushing through his curls and flapping his coat. Flashing in and our of view, sometimes something else entirely appearing there, he walked towards them, eyes intent of Moran.

"Let her go," he growled and his voice was like ice, making them both shiver.

"You're dead," Moran whispered, his pin on Molly loosening. "I dug up your grave to make sure. You're dead."

"LET HER GO!" Sherlock's scream dissolved into a banshee's wail, a wall of air hitting Moran and knocking him back. The invisible birds were everywhere, their wings beating the air and filling it with cries as both Molly and Moran cowered from his fury. Despite it all - the icy air, the shaking, the glass, and the birds - Moran kept his grip on Molly and Sherlock let out a roar of rage. He dissolved completely and the something else took his place.

Moran let out a shout, stumbling back. "Keep away! Keep away!" he screamed as the thing reached out for him.

Letting out a sob, Molly covered her eyes as she was dragged along. "Sherlock please," she cried. She tried to block it all out, block out what she had _seen_. "Stop. Please stop!"

The back of Moran's legs hit the window frame and he cried out, glass digging into his flesh. The birds were everywhere, sitting on every surface and filling the air. They made up part of the figure before him, broken feathered bodies hanging from the aflame black form. The blue flames touched the ceiling, blackening the plaster as the tarry black hand reached for him. Moran screamed and fell back, plunging through the broken window-

-and carrying Molly with him.

*****

"Are you alright?"

Molly blinked up at the blue sky. It was clear, a cloudless blue that she'd only thought existed in magazine photos and that certainly did not belong in London. A face was blocking her vision though. A black man in a wig and dress was asking her questions her ears were ringing too hard to hear as she stared up past him to gaze up at a shattered window.

Her shattered window.

How had she gotten outside?

The ground she was laying on surged beneath her and it all came rushing back. Sherlock, her ghost, approaching her in a guise both unfamiliar and terrifying. Being bound to a chair in her own kitchen. Moran…

Moran.

Hands grabbed her before she could even think of getting up to run and she looked up to see a battered, grizzled face glaring down at her. Blood was pouring down Moran's face from a cut near his temple and the side of his face was already showing signs of swelling. His grip was firm though as he dragged them to their feet.

"What the fuck was that!?" Moran hissed, dragging her towards a black car parked by the kerb. "Some sort of trick?"

Her head was throbbing, her ears still ringing as she was dragged down the street. She thought she could hear someone shouting her name, but she could only see the drag queen trotting along behind her on broken heels, a frown on her brightly painted lips. Molly turned towards her to ask for help only to see that the poor woman's face was a mass of cuts and bruises, her leg bent at angle that would have been too painful to walk on if she was alive.

London was a haunted city. She'd well learned that it seethed with ghosts in every corner and from all walks of life. Those that had walked the streets before her and those that had been brutally removed from them before their time.

"Don't you dare hurt her," the dead drag queen hissed as she hobbled after them down the street. She wiped blood from her dark skin as if it were sweat, her breath laboured. "Men shouldn't do harm to a lady."

Molly's heart broke. She reached back for the murdered woman only to hear a click behind her. With an inarticulate yelp she was shoved into the boot of the black car. Moran shoved her in, not bothering to check to make sure her hands and feet were clear before slamming the lid shut. Darkness surrounded her and she let out a shout, kicking and banging at the hatch as Moran's footsteps walked away. Muttering lowly, Moran walked around the car and hauled the driver's door open. She could hear the sound of the dead drag queen continuing to scold Moran, her voice full of fury until it was drowned out by the roar of the engine starting. From the boot she could hear the sound of the clutch disengaging as the car pulled away from the kerb.

In the darkness she thought she heard someone scream her name.

Traveling in the boot of a car was not something she'd ever done before and it was not something she ever wanted to do again. Being in the pitch blackness was a strange, eerie experience and Moran was not a careful driver. He streaked around traffic and other cars sending her sliding from side to side and flying with every bounce as he raced through London's busy streets.

She couldn't breathe. Not in such an enclosed space. There didn't even seem to be enough oxygen. Gasping for breath she clawed at the ceiling and walls, breaking her nails as she tried to get a grip enough to get out. The car screeched to a halt as she tried to clutch onto something, anything but instead she rolled to the back of the boot with a shriek.

The engine died. The driver's side door opened and slammed shut. Molly struggled to the front of the boot, struggling to get the hatch open as footsteps walked around the car. They stopped right next to the hatch. Breath frozen, Molly laid tensely in the boot of the car, ready to spring as soon as the lock was undone.

Moran slammed his fist on the hatch of the boot, making her gasp and jump. "I'm opening the door now," his muffled voice growled. "Try something and you're dead. You understand?"

Licking her lips she swallowed hard. "Y-yes," she wobbled, staying tensed. There was no way she was going to obey though. No way she was going to go down without a fight. If she was going to die-

Molly swallowed hard. She didn't want to die.

The boot came open and Molly kicked wildly, trying to knock Moran back. The man seemed to expect that though, grabbing hold of her ankle and hauling her from the car. An arm wrapped around her body and she struggled until she felt something cold and hard dig in to her side.

She froze as Moran chuckled lowly. "That's right," he murmured. "Try anything like that again and you're dead."

He shoved the gun harder against her ribs as she mentally calculated the angle. If he fired it now would the bullet hit her heart? Wincing as he pushed her along, Molly didn't know if she was impartial enough to predict the potential wound. What would kill her first? The grim grinning ghost that lurked inside the building Moran was quickly dragging her towards? Or a shot from the gun that was locked against her side? She didn't know. All she knew was that she didn't want to die.

Molly must have said that last bit out loud for Moran chuckled again, his chest rumbling against her back as they stopped in front of a door. "Don't worry. Once I get the evidence I'll leave you alone. If you don't make a fuss I'll even let you live."

She thought of Sherlock then, of the demonic thing he had turned into when he'd been trying to scare Moran away and shivered. "Liar," she whispered, repeating the pronouncement Sherlock had made.

Moran chuckled again and reached around her to open the door. "You really are too smart for your own good," he said, his grip on her still tight. "How about this, I promise I'll make it quick."

It wasn't reassuring. Yet as the cool air of the St Bart's climate control washed over her Molly found herself focusing on more important things. The gun pressed against her side and the man at her back were only minor concerns when there was a giggling ghost standing at the end of the hall.

He wiggled his fingers at her as Moran cursed and shoved her inside. A smile parted his lips, light flashing from behind his teeth as Moriarty grinned at her. "Did you miss me?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween....

AN- A LOT has happened since the last time I updated. I defended my thesis and graduated with my Master's, I got a job, and I moved across the country (and way, way, WAY north) to Alaska! There were some serious bumps along the way and my parents are still being forced to watch my asshole cats for me, but at least I'm finding the time to write again and I've finally gotten internet access! Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, especially TheEleventhTARDIS and kara who managed to get me off my ass and finally finishing this chapter. Hopefully it won't take me another year to get the next one up. I would also like to thank Sir Terry Pratchett, who's loss is sorely missed for my favorite idea of what the afterlife is like. Sir Terry, you were the best of us all and I miss knowing that you were still in our world. Until next time.

She was going to die.

Molly had spent a lot of time around death. More than most people, that was for sure. It was one of the perks and drawbacks of deciding that your workplace of choice was the morgue. Decent working hours, quiet clients, and an uncomfortable familiarity with death and all the ways it appeared. And while she'd seen suicides and murders, accidents, drownings, dismemberments, and regular old heart attacks she had to wonder-

What would death by ghost look like?

Moriarty giggled, stalking her through the halls as Moran dragged her the long way round down to the morgue. The ghoul was keeping his distance, taking the time to cackle as more and more ghosts appeared to stare at Molly with sad empty eyes as Moran pulled her along. She couldn't help but wonder what she would look like when she joined them, what it would feel like when she was dead. Would she be like the rest, trapped in this hospital forever or would she somehow make it back to Baker Street like Sherlock?

Sherlock.

Her occasionally friendly flatmate of a ghost. Mind drifting back to the flat she thought of the creature that had stood in Sherlock's place and shivered, forcing herself to think of something, anything, else. She thought it had been him, screaming in desperation as he called her name. Molly wondered if he would miss her. If he would forget her. If he would ever really know what happened to her besides that she'd been taken from their flat and never returned. Moran twisted her arm viciously as she gasped, pain radiating up through her. Well, not precisely taken from the flat. Sherlock had thrown her out of a window after all. The bastard. She cracked a smile, tears dripping down her face as she staggered after the gun toting blong man. That absolute bastard. If she made it back to Baker Street she was going to give him such a hard time about that.

"Good golly Miss Molly, you've certainly been bad," Moriarty giggled. She glanced back at him, finding the ghost continued to dog their steps, staying a constant ten feet away. "Bringing me presents. It's not even my birthday! Now, even though you've brought me my favorite minion doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you." His eyes glinted red and Molly smelled sulfur as the hallway started to darken. "I'm going to burn the heart out of you and send the ashes to Sherlock. He will know what I've done to you and despair."

She was going to die. Glancing over to Moran, at the gun held tight in his hand, her eyes drifted lazily back to the monster behind them. "Shut up," she said, voice far more airy and calm than she felt. "You're boring me."

Moriarty gaped and looked absolutely insulted as Moran snorted. "I'm boring you? Well forgive me if I don't feel being your fucking clown," the big man snapped and twisted her arm again until she cried out. Turning a corner he abruptly slammed her into the wall, arm across her throat as she gasped and struggled, fingers digging into his shirt sleeve as she struggled for breath. "How did you do it!?" he demanded, face white as Moriarty peered at them both, scowling. "How? Was it mirrors? Cameras? How did you make him appear like that? That bastard of a detective is dead."

Moriarty gasped dramatically, pouting hugely. "Moran got to play with Sherlock? No fair! I'm the one that murdered him, I should be the one to get to go on a play date with the dearly departed detective."

Kicking against him, Molly tried to twist out of Moran's grip as she struggled to breathe. The huge man pinned her against the wall with his body, arm cutting off all air as he glared down at her. "Tell me how you did it or so help me I'll kill you right here and now." His other arm came up, metal pressing hard against her temple. Tears tracked down her cheeks, staining her face red from the dried blood that coated them both as Molly tried to draw oxygen into her starving lungs.

She didn't want to die. There were things she still wanted to do. Places to see, people to meet, a life to live. She'd never run a marathon or flown in a hot air balloon. She'd never told her brother how much he meant to her or even given him a proper goodbye. She'd not said goodbye to anyone, not to Greg or any of her old friends nor even to Sherlock.

Her lungs were burning, the edges of her vision growing black. Moriarty was cackling from his place over Moran's shoulder, his dark eyes lit from within with delight as all around them a silent audience of sad ghosts hovered, transparent and useless.

She was going to die.

But at least she could choose how to go out.

Eyes narrowing, Molly spat in Moran's face. The man flinched back, mouth twisting in disgust as her spittle dripped down his face, loosening his arm enough for her to take a breath. Moran's blue eyes were lifeless as he slowly wiped the spit from his face. "You bitch," he said, voice flat. The gun came up, the barrel pressing against her forehead.

Molly closed her eyes, her entire body going tight. A final tear streamed down her cheek. She could hear Moriarty panting with delight, practically whimpering in excitement and she tried to think of Baker Street, of Sherlock and airy rooms with wallpaper she refused to admit that she had grown to love. Or heaven. Somewhere besides the hospital where she could go after she was dead. Yet in her final moment all she could think about was her mother, the woman's face far away and sad as she regarded her daughter from a distance.

The safety clicked off.

"Molly?" A new voice. Familiar. "What the hell's going on here-?"

A single gunshot rang out, echoing through the halls. It was followed by silence and then the low thump of a body wetly hitting the floor.

Molly Hooper opened her eyes.

Moran's face was turned away from her. His arm was held out and away from her, pointing down the hall. Against her will her eyes followed it, her breath coming in little gasps as she caught sight of the fallen body, the slightly plump and broken form all too familiar to her.

"Mike!" she gasped and stepped towards him, but Moran yanked her back as tears streamed from her eyes. Mike's eyes were shut as he laid in the center of the hall, his glasses fallen and broken at his side and a pool of blood slowly beginning to spread beneath him. There was a perfect round hole in his shirt, already ringed in deepening red. "Let me go!" she demanded, struggling against the man who held her. "He could still be alive! Let me help him!"

"No," Moran said shortly. With a grip like iron he dragged her down the hall, past Mike's prone body. Her eyes darted over him, taking in his still form and the blood and she knew that if there was still time, it was only moments. He needed help but who was there to help him? The other ghosts were gone and only Moriarty remained, his face nearly orgasmic as he stood at the edge of the pool of blood and bent down to touch it. A sob escaped her throat as Moran hauled her past Mike and through a set of doors into the chill of the morgue.

Thrusting Molly before him, Moran grabbed a lab stool and broke it in his hands, shoving a metal stool leg through the handles of the door. Rounding on Molly who cowered back he grabbed her arm again and marched her towards the body coolers. "Which one was it?" he demanded, shoving her towards the drawers. "Get the evidence. Now."

"I-I can't," Molly gasped. She wrapped her arms around herself, body shaking with repressed sobs. Mike. Dear Mike. He'd been her boss, but also her friend. Her ally in all this. She'd never told him about Moriarty, about the ghosts or the visions she'd been struck with but he'd still seemed to know. He'd tried to protect her, transferring her to safety, and now he was dead and it was all her fault. She'd all but murdered him herself.

"What do you mean, you can't," Moran roared, pointing the gun at her again. "Open the goddamn drawers and get me that goddamn evidence!"

"I can't!" Molly shouted back, wrapping her arms around herself tighter. "I don't have any evidence against Moriarty. I've never had any evidence against Moriarty! I'm a pathologist, not a detective, I don't know how to even collect evidence against a dead criminal mastermind."

"Bullshit!" Moran shouted, face going red as his veins bulged. "I tracked the IP address that hacked my systems back to your flat. You were the one to-"

"It was Sherlock!" she shrieked, eyes meeting his and her gaze fierce. "Sherlock has the evidence. Who know's what he's done with it. Who he's sent it to. It's probably on its way to BBC as we speak."

Moran stilled but the hand holding the gun began to tremble as he pointed it at her. "Holmes is dead. I watched him plunge off the ledge. I saw his brains smeared on the sidewalk."

"Oh shut up and try to think if you can," Molly growled. Mike was dead because of her. She was already as good as dead herself. If Moran didn't shoot her now, Moriarty would take his time taking her apart. She had nothing left to lose. "You saw what was in my flat. You know who it was. Sherlock Holmes may be dead, but he's certainly not departed."

Swallowing audibly Moran shook his head. "No. You… You're crazy. There's no such thing as ghosts."

Her gaze went past him to the door where a transparent figure was pushing its way through the metal doors. Moriarty, his face streaked with Mike's blood and his face blissful. Her gaze hardened. "Ghosts are real. Sherlock's not the only one either."

"Ah," Moriarty sighed and Moran suddenly stilled, his entire being seeming to freeze in that one second. "Trying to enlighten my little minion? I wouldn't bother if I were you, he's not all that bright."

"Ghosts are real," Molly said again, her voice firm. She poured fire into her own veins forcing herself to stand up straighter and meet Moran's eyes with the intensity of the sun. "Moriarty's a ghost. He's here with us right now."

"Shut up," Moran whispered, his hand trembling like a leaf. "Jim's dead. I saw him die."

"Well he didn't stay dead. He's right behind you, Moran," Molly said, glaring at man and ghost together.

"No he's not."

"He is," she said vehemently. "He's right behind you. Less than two feet away. He's looking at you, he's calling your name. He's begging for you to see him."

"Oh I am certainly not," Moriarty said, voice insulted. "I never beg. Give it up Miss Molly. Not even Moran is moron enough to believe that swill."

"He wants you to forgive him," Molly continued as Moriarty gasped loudly and looked repulsed. "He's sorry that he made you watch him commit suicide. He needs to know that you forgive him before he can move on."

Moran's face was white as snow as Moriarty rolled his eyes dramatically skyward. "This nonsense has gone on for long enough. Shoot her you idiot."

Biting her lip, Molly looked between the two men and took a chance. "He says that he loved you too."

Moriarty made a noise of incredulous horror as Moran let out a cry of despair. His gun arm dropped as the big man turned to look desperately for the ghost. "Jim?" he cried. "Are you there? God, Jim I've missed you-"

There was a flash of silver and blood arced through the air. Moran collapsed to his knees, clutching at his throat as Moriarty glared down at him. A silver scalpel dripping red was in his hand as his lips twisted in disgust. "You are such a disappointment," he growled. "As if I could ever love an idiot like you."

Moran's gaze traveled upwards to meet the ghost's eyes. He might have heard Moriarty. He might not have. Molly didn't wait to find out though, turning and running as soon as both men's attention was off of them. Heart racing she dashed to the back door, throwing it open and sprinting down the hall as Moriarty let out a cry of fury behind her. It was all down to running again she thought, nearly slipping as she turned a corner. Her feet versus Moriarty's ghostly power. She didn't know if she could get away again.

The corridors were wavering before her eyes, the walls seeming to warp and melt as heat and pressure built up around her. Moriarty wasn't going to let her get away this time. Reaching a fire exit she cursed as the door slammed shut in front of her. Crashing into it she banged on the metal, screaming and cursing loudly before giving it a final kick. "You can't block every exit!" she shouted to the empty air, not even believing herself as she said it. "I won't let you get me!"

Laughter echoed through the halls as she turned and continued to run. How many exits were there from the morgue? How many could she get to before the ghost caught her, before he killed her? She wasn't sure but she would do just about anything to find out.

A thought struck her and she came to a crashing halt against the wall, chest heaving. This wasn't just between her and Moriarty, this was an active hospital. There were other people here, patients, people who'd she'd sworn to heal and protect. Without another thought she glanced to her right and hit the fire alarm. The two tone shriek filled the air, lights flashing a warning as another idea struck her. Smirking to herself she took a breath and headed for the employee break room.

She didn't want to die. So now it was the time to fight.

*****

"Molly? Where are you?" The voice echoed through the halls. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

Hands over her mouth, Molly pressed herself tighter against the wall and tried to control her racing thoughts. Think! What did she know about ghosts? What did she know about Sherlock? He was incorporeal and touching her without a buffer caused him pain. He could move physical objects but it was difficult for him and he really could only manage the one object at a time. He could do the thing with the invisible birds, but Moriarty didn't seem to be able to manage that. They both turned into… things when they were very upset or angry.

But what good did any of this do her? How did you kill a ghost?

"Molly! I'm getting bored!" Moriarty's sing song voice menaced. "You won't like it when I get bored, Molly. Molly? Moooollllyyyyy…"

The voice faded away down the hall and Molly took a breath before stepping away from the wall. So Moriarty couldn't find her easily, couldn't track her through the halls using his ghost powers. That was good to know.

Glancing down the hall Molly jogged down the way she'd come, her mind still on the break room. There was the fire axe there and the defibrillator. Neither of which would probably work on a ghost, but she'd still feel better armed. Besides, she could use the fire axe to chop through a door and escape to safety? While a murderous ghost just stood there and politely waited for her summon up some latent lumberjack skills, of course. Easy as pie! "Shut up," she murmured under her breath. The plan was a work in progress. First she'd get the axe, then there was some question marks, and - finally - profit!

Her hand on the break room knob, she paused as her eyes went wide. "Oh god, I've seen cartoons on the telly with that plan," she muttered. Molly bit her lip and shook her head to clear her thoughts. It was no matter. She was set on living and would do anything to make sure she got through this in one piece. Wrenching open the door, Molly ducked inside only to freeze at the sight of the man rummaging through the silverware drawer. "Mike!"

The pudgy man turned, his face lighting up in delight. "Molly! I thought you were dead!"

"Don't be silly, I thought you were the dead one," Molly said, a smile splitting her face. "I don't understand, I saw Moran shoot you. How did you survive?"

"Twas but a flesh wound," Mike said, eyes crinkling as he smiled at his own stupid reference. He gestured to his still bloody side with a bit of a wince. "He missed everything too vital."

"There was a lot of blood though. Do you want me to take a look at it? You may need stitches."

Mike waved her off, face pale and drawn. "There's no time. All the exits are locked and the hospital is in the middle of a fire evacuation. Your doing I imagine? Good job. Anyway, it'll take them ages to come here and check on us and we have a rampaging ghost to deal with."

"You know about Moriarty?" Molly asked, shoulders sinking with relief.

"I've suspected that our Angel of Death was something a bit more paranormal for a while now, but I wasn't sure how to tell anyone about it without sounding completely crazy," Mike said with a weak smile. "But the ghost seemed to have a particular interest in you so I knew I had to send you away. So it's Moriarty? That Irish bastard. What about Sherlock, is he here?"

"Sherlock is in Baker Street," Molly said with a grin. "After we get out of this I'll take you to see him."

"Sherlock's in Baker Street?" Mike repeated, eyes going wide. "With you? You've been living with the spectre of Sherlock Holmes as your flat mate all this time? No wonder you had that mental break. I thought it was work that got to you, but if you were living with Sherlock-"

Molly laughed, shaking her head. It was strange, laughing when a murderous ghoul was hunting her, but for some reason she felt, well, light. Free. Mike knew. He understood. They were going to get through this together. "So what's the plan, boss?" she asked, throwing open cupboards and throwing things out. She knew she'd seen that fire axe in there somewhere.

"I'm not sure," Mike said, going back to the drawers as well. "I thought I would get a knife, see if I could pry the fire doors open somehow and slip out before anyone noticed. But all of these are plastic. I don't know if I want to risk going back to the labs to get a scalpel."

Molly let out a little crow of pleasure, her hands closing around a rubberized handle before pulling a large object from the cupboard. "How about this for a knife?"

Mike blinked, eyes going round as he took in the massive fire axe. "That might work." The metal door to the fire escape suddenly shook, the door vibrating as something on the other side began to pound hard. Going pale, Mike jumped and headed for the other exit. "He's found us. Come on, we have to go."

"Go where?" Molly asked, following him. "We're never going to get out of this unless we find a stairwell."

"This way," Mike said, hurrying forward in the lead as they left the sound of banging behind them.

Her feet squeaked on the tile floor as they ran, Mike somehow managing to stay in front as they twisted through the halls. It was actually rather impressive. The plump man didn't even seem to be out of breath and his wound wasn't bothering him at all as Molly's heart began to pound and her lungs burn. If she got out of this she was going to take up all the jogging, join a gym, and eat kale for every single meal, she promised herself. The path Mike was leading her on was winding as they took a circuitous route toward wherever Mike was wanting to go. Her palms began to sweat as she struggled to hold the axe up, her chest heaving. "Mike!" she called as the other man turned the corner in front of her. "Wait! I need a break-"

Skidding around the corner she came up short and gasped for breath as she took in the body in the center of the floor. It was Mike, just as she'd seen him after Moran shot him, the pool of blood beneath him congealing and the corpse's face pale and drawn. Mike stood above himself, hand on his wound as he blinked down at his own body. "Oh," he said, voice soft. He reached up and adjusted his spectacles. "So I did die."

"Mike," she gasped between breaths. The lightness seemed to fade from her as she took in the man gazing with sadness at his own body. "Christ, Mike I'm so, so sorry. This is all- It's all my fault."

"It's not. It's mine," Mike said and as he turned towards her his eyes were rapidly becoming vacant, empty. "I'm so sorry, Molly."

More ghosts faded into existence behind him, their faces drawn and empty as they stared at her with lifeless eyes. She took a step back, bile rising in her throat at their slack bodies and hopeless gazes. "Mike-"

A hand wrapped around the curve of her hip and she gasped, looking down to see long, twisted fingers in red and black resting there. She looked up into a demon's face, the flesh mottled and dark and the eyes aflame with hellfire. "Hello dearie," the creature said with Moriarty's voice.

Molly screamed and on instinct swung the axe. To her shock and Moriarty's it slammed into the flesh near his neck and stuck there, black tarry blood seeping up into the wound. Moriarty screamed, stepping back. Holding tight to the axe it ripped free from his flesh and the black substance dripped down his chest in an inky cascade. His eyes were wide as he glared at her. "You bitch!" he roared. "That hurt!"

Not waiting to see what he would do next Molly turned tail and fled through the nearest set of doors. She slammed them behind her, thrusting the axe through the handles and took a step back as the something else slammed into the doors, shaking them. Moriarty had a weakness, she thought to herself as she staggered back. When he was in the body of that creature he was flesh and blood. He could be hurt. What could she do now, knowing that?

Her foot stepped on something slick and she tripped, falling backwards hard onto her bum. Letting out a groan she glared at her own feet to see what she'd tripped over only to meet Moran's eyes. His blood was on the floor, she'd slipped in it. She gasped, scooting back as the man blinked slowly, clutching at his own neck still. "You bitch," he said weakly, his face pale in the harsh light of the morgue.

"No, no, no, no," Molly muttered, staggering to her feet and looking about. She was an idiot. She was back exactly where she had started, the doors of the body drawers glinting at her in silent mocking. "No!"

Looking around wildly she found that her original exit had been blocked, a cupboard and even a lab benchmpulled down in front of it and the door inaccessible. Running to it anyway she struggled to move the heavy furniture but couldn't even manage to move it an inch. She was trapped. Trapped right where all of this had begun. Idiot! Her eyes darted to the glass of the observation room as Moran shakily sat up and the creature at the door continued to pound. The fire axe was holding him out, but for how long? Grabbing a lab stool she slammed the metal into the glass over and over again. Pleading under her breath she begged for the glass to shatter but it hadn't even begun to crack as the door on the other side of the glass flew open.

Molly shrank back, holding the stool in front of her defensively only to find that the face that stepped through the door was not a monstrous one, but instead friendly. For through the doorway on the other side of the glass stepped Greg Lestrade, his face freckled and browned from sun and his hair a bit longer and in disarray. His eyes went wide as he caught sight of her, hurrying over to the glass and resting his hand upon it as he mouthed her name.

"Greg!" she shouted, eyes lighting up. She didn't know how it was possible that he was here, the last she'd heard from him he'd still been overseas with his friend, but he was here now and alive and he could help her! "Greg, I'm trapped! You have to help me break the glass and-!"

Greg's eyes went wide and he recoiled in horror before surging forward. He pounded on the glass, shouting something and looking over his shoulder to yell as she felt hot breath on her neck. Molly froze. She couldn't hear pounding at the door any longer. How long had it been since it stopped? She couldn't remember. A shadow was looming behind her in the glass and she turned, raising the stool to strike.

Moran knocked it out of her hands as he slammed her back into the glass, his hands around her neck. Her nails dug into his flesh as she struggled, Greg shouting and pounding on the glass behind her but all she could see was Moran, his eyes lit up with hellfire as he smiled at her. Blood still ran from his own neck but he didn't seem to care, strangling her with a single minded intensity.

"Poor little Molly Hooper," he cooed and it was Moriarty's voice she heard. The tall blond man's flesh began to twist and distort, Moriarty's face somehow coming through as his skin split and began to darken. As he began to turn into the creature. Moriarty was doing it by possessing bodies she realized, but the thought didn't help her as her lungs struggled for air once more. Behind her, Greg was screaming, still pounding on the glass as Moriarty bent his face to hers. His face was like a lover's soft and close enough to kiss as he smiled at her. "I'm going to kill you now."

Greg was screaming. Moran's flesh was burning off of him as Moriarty used up his body. And Molly-

She gagged a final time, lungs screaming for air as her vision went dark. Her nails fell away from Moran's wrists, her body going slack as Moriarty laughed. There was a gunshot, the glass shattering behind her but it was too late. The darkness took her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*****

When her eyes opened again Molly was standing on the edge of a desert. It was dark, the sands black and as she shuffled her feet it rose like mist before settling down once more. No stars were in the sky, no breeze blew, but when she squinted she thought she could see figures far in the distance walking away from her and, past them, mountains. There was the barest glow of light hidden somewhere beyond those mountains and as she gazed upon them she found herself wanting to know what was beyond them. She took a step forward.

There was a loud sniffle behind her. Hesitating she turned back to see a small grubby boy in knickerbockers rubbing his face as he wiped away tears. He looked up at her and his eyes were dark and speckled with fire. "It's not fair," he said, voice sullen and accented with green Dublin. "I wasn't supposed to go alone. Where's my friend? Where's he gone? I've only got the one."

She knew him, Molly realized as she walked back to him, sinking down upon one knee to look into his small face. "Who's your friend?" she asked though she thought she already knew the answer.

"Sh'lock," the boy hiccuped. "We were playing a fun game and now he's supposed to take me home."

Molly bit her lip and slowly shook her head. "Sherlock's not coming. Not yet at least," she said, her mind traveling to a small chilly flat full of music. She looked over to the desert and the beckoning glow. "You're going to have to walk on your own."

"No!" the boy, Moriarty, shouted. His eyes flashed red as he stomped his foot and suddenly he was older, taller. "I won't go by myself!" Then he was young again, nearly a toddler as he moved to suck his thumb. "I don't know what's over there." Turning he began to march determinedly away from the mountains, the air starting to split and pull apart to reveal a strange white hallway. It looked like a hospital. "I won't go by myself, I won't, I won't! I'll go find Sherlock and make him go with me! He has to go with me for I shan't go alone!"

"Then go with me," a male voice said. They both looked over to see a tall blond man, Moran, standing there. He looked tired, his face drawn as he reached over to the boy who'd stopped his march. "Come on, Jim. It's time for you to go. We can go together."

"I don't want to go with you," Moriarty said, pouting. When Moran took his hand he didn't protest though, stumbling over his own feet as Moran began to walk towards the mountains. Behind them the air shimmered but shut, the hallway vanishing into darkness once more. "What's on the other side of the mountains?" Molly heard his small voice ask as they stepped out into the desert. "Do you think it's heaven?"

"No," she heard Moran reply. "But it will be alright. I'm here now."

There was a sniffle as they walked into the darkness, fading from view. A low chuckle and the sound of a man's voice. "You idiot. You really loved me, didn't you? I'm almost sorry I killed you now."

"I always did say you'd be the death of me," she heard Moran say. If there was a reply after that she didn't hear it, the figures swallowed up by the darkness of the desert.

Molly stood. She brushed off her knee, admiring how the black desert sand glinted as it settled back to the ground. Looking to the desert she smiled and moved to step forward only for a hand to wrap around her wrist. "And where do you think you're going?" she heard Mike's kindly voice ask her as he pulled her back to face him.

Letting out a huff of frustration, Molly glared at her former boss. "I want to know what's over there," she said, gesturing to the mountains. "What's that light over there? I want to know what it is."

Mike looked over and frowned before looking back. "That? That's what we think we deserve," he said with a hint of a smile. "I think it's going to be a big comfy chair, a roaring fire, and a new book with a fresh cuppa on the side, don't you?"

"I don't know," she said honestly, her eyes traveling towards the desert again. "I suppose I haven't thought about it before. I imagined there would be more angels though. Or at least big pearly gates and clouds. Maybe they're on the other side of the mountains? I just want to find out."

"I don't suppose it could wait, could it?" Mike asked and smiled at her. She scowled back, folding her arms but the scowl faded as more and more faces appeared around them, the people gasping at the sight of the desert. Some of them looked familiar. but she was starting to have trouble remembering where she could have met them. Surely she hadn't seen them in the desert before. Had there been a place before the desert? She must have asked that question out loud for Mike's face went sad and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, turning her away from the mountains. "Molly, I need you to do me a favor."

She frowned but sighed, stepping closer. "What sort of favor?"

"I need you to deliver a message for me," Mike said, his eyes sad. "To Sherlock. You have to tell him that I'm sorry. It was all my fault. That night when he came to me… I should have helped. I could have helped, but I was too… I was afraid. I could have stopped all this before it even started. I could have saved his life. Tell him that I'm sorry that I didn't."

Molly bit her lip, stepping forward. "Mike-"

"Please," he interrupted her with, stepping back himself. "Please tell him? I can't do it myself, but you still can."

"How?" she asked with a frown. "We're both here and Sherlock is not."

"I was watching them before I came here," Mike said, smiling at her. "They were giving you CPR."

Her brow furrowed. "Who?"

Still smiling Mike pointed away from the desert into the distance. She turned and felt Mike's hand touch her shoulder, shoving her hard. Stumbling, Molly fell and kept falling. She fell through the desert, down, down, down, as light and wind raced past her. Stars appeared and raced past, burning balls of fire as she fell and fell and fell. She screamed, hands reaching for a grip she couldn't find as she plunged into nothingness and light.

A voice echoed in her ear.

"Remember to tell him."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*****

Molly Hooper took a breath. Her eyes cracked open and she looked up to see the weary face of Greg Lestrade who beamed down at her before seizing her into his arms. "Oh thank god," he said before crushing her against him in an aching embrace.

Molly blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bright white light. Her hands came up to touch Greg's shirt, rubbing the material between her fingers. It was rough and slick and the best thing she'd ever felt in her life. Next to them a man was kneeling, his face careworn and a mustache upon his upper lip. It looked a bit silly to be frank. She frowned at him, body aching, and turned to Greg to ask who he was only for Greg's lips to meet hers in a searing kiss.

She blinked again. Greg was kissing her, his hands in her hair. There was glass all around them, a dead body a few feet away, the stranger turning a bit pink at their side, and Greg was kissing her as if she was the very air he needed to breathe.

Oh, Molly thought weakly to herself. Oh dear.

Later she would reflect on that moment and grouse that, if her life had been a romance novel, it would have been perfect time to swoon. Instead as Greg pulled away and the emergency workers finally arrived she met his wide beam with a tentative smile and wondered what the hell she was going to do now.


End file.
